First Six Steps
by steelmongoose
Summary: Traveling to the distant and ruined city of Silvermoon is a task for the foolhardy or the very skilled, and Crys'annadath Skychaser is both of these. He goes seeking his lost sister, for only by closing that chapter of his life will he be able to move on.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_On the first step of a journey, question your purpose._

_If you can find no fault in your reason for going, take your next._

_On the second step, question your destination. _

_If it is clear and familiar to you, take your next. _

_On the third step, question your supplies. _

_If you are amply supplied, take your next. _

_On the fourth step, question your equipment. _

_If they are of quality construction, take your next. _

_On the fifth step, question your self. _

_If you are fit and capable of making the trip, take your next. _

_If, on the sixth step of your journey you have no doubts, _

_take your seventh, and every one after that, knowing that_

_your destination will soon be within sight. _

_-_Dwarven Proverb

The room was as dark and stale as a tomb, only the indistinct grey outlines of shapes visible to all but the keenest of eyes. Slivers of light the thickness of knife blades were thrown by the shuttered window, cutting away the gloom in a few places, revealing thin shards of color there; green leather, wood-stained oak, faded parchment. The chamber was nearly silent as well, the only clues indicating that time had not somehow come to a stand-still within this room were the motes of dust dancing languidly in the shafts of light. There was too, the regular cadence of inhalation and exhalation from its sole occupant which swirled the minuscule glitters on unseen eddies. Faint strains of noise, shouting voices, horse hooves clopping on cobblestone streets or gulls crying crept unbidden and unwelcome into this sanctuary of morose reclusion, seemingly as alien to it as a snow flake landing on a sand dune.

There was then a sharp and crystalline clink of finely cut glass striking stone lightly, seeming like a roll of summer thunder in the stifling and oppressive quiet. It was trailed closely by a shuffling of cloth and a sound only a set of lungs and a pair of lips could give birth to, a sound beginning its existence as a despairing sigh and evolving into pained croak near the end, its lifespan measured in moments. None of its like followed in the gulf of silence that followed, however, its creator slipping back quietly into the rum-drenched seas of blissful unconsciousness.

There was another sequence of sounds then, coming from outside the locked and shuttered room, the ascent of booted feet on stairs, marching onwards to the beat of inescapable duty. The clomping of stiff, boiled leather soles came to a stop with a slight shuffle just outside the chamber door then remained still for some time, as if considering what task had to necessarily follow, a pair of dark shadows blocking the slim horizon of sunlight along the door's bottom. The boots shuffled again, heralding three sharp raps on the portal and the barely detectable clinking of mail armor and creak of folding leather. With a noise akin to the whisper of a dainty maiden's footfalls across stone a folded and sealed letter of cream-colored vellum was injected into the room under the door, and, with duty discharged, the boots clomped gratefully and quickly away.

The three knocks disturbed the room's only occupant, rousing him from his drunken slumber and forcing out a pained grunt from deep within his throat. Unhurried by curiosity's prodding touch the lone figure sat still for a time, his reverie broken only by an air-hungry yawn and the light squelching noise of bleary eyes being rubbed. Those same eyes looked to the door, then to the crisp and clean intruder on the floor that the wooden guardian had allowed to slip by. More time passed, and despite the calmness of the setting a fierce war was being waged, an internal conflict between the will to act and the mindless desire for self-gratification.

" Haven't you taken enough from me? " a harsh voice whispered finally to the darkness, an empty question posed to a vacant room.

Muscles strained and clothing slid and shifted as a humanoid shape, hunch-backed and shambling, formed itself from one of the inanimate fixtures residing within the oppressively hushed chamber and moved towards the letter. With a creak of stiff joints and a breath made tight by a curled back pale, slender fingers grasped the missive by a corner and hefted it upwards, as if loathe to touch any more of it than was necessary. Fingertips traced along the cool ridges of the wax seal with the scrutiny of digits long starved of tactile sensation, relaying to the mind what the eyes could not. Spurred to further action by their findings the occupant moved to where the shuttered windows leaked beams of sunlight. With a few insistent open-palmed slaps the flood-gates parted to allow a chaotic rush of illumination, sounds and fresh air into the stagnant pool of cloying shadow and silence the room had been allowed to become. The figure, harshly revealed by that which he had sought refuge from, recoiled as if wounded by shielding his eyes and wincing.

The now starkly illuminated man was revealed to be one of the Quel'dorei, or Highborne, though there was little about his appearance or bearing that would give any indication of such a noble lineage. Blonde hair, tangled and knotted, still managed to catch the rays of the sun, giving it an almost golden sheen, with gleams of pure red throughout. Contrasting sharply to the burning crimson of his eyes the pupils shone like rings of frigid blue steel, laying thick and heavy around the now tiny black pupils. Like some sort of grotesque rooster heralding the morning a belch rumbled out from the elf's sagging belly and issued out from his slightly parted lips, as foul and sour as the very things that had been tossed in there to ferment the night before. Patting his sternum with his right fist lightly the elf, arrayed in a mismatched suit of a yellow wool tunic and blue leggings carrying the scent of too many days without a wash, shifted himself so that he was shielded from the harshest of the sun's light, while bringing the letter more into focus.

It did indeed carry the seal of the Theramore ruling council, the purple wax seal marbled with white the very image of an identical letter he had received almost…what was it? Nearly a year ago? Frowning even more as he tried to remember exactly how long it had been since that day a flicker of grief passed over his already pinched features, an image of _who_ had delivered the previous letter to his very hand flashing through his mind. Had it been so long already? The sparked curiosity and brittle framework that was the elf's lingering sense of duty prompted his finger, his nails long and unkempt, to pry the seal away from the vellum, chips of dried wax joining crumbs of bread on the dusty floor. When it finally broke the elf pushed the two sides of the folded letter apart, his eyes having to refresh themselves by blinking several times before they were able to grasp the smooth, elegant chains of letters inked there and hold fast.

_To all persons currently in military service the rank of lieutenant or higher, Magi and Clerics of at least ten years experience, and guild leaders within Theramore and its environs, _

_A long time has passed since we, formerly of Lordaeron, Dalaran, Kul Tiras and many other fiefs and baronies, were forced to leave our homes with the Scourge on our heels, lead by visions promising safety on distant shores. Two years have passed since the titanic battle at the foot of Mount Hyjal, where Orc, Kaldorei, and the Alliance stood shoulder-to- shoulder to save our world from the clutches of the Burning Legion. Word now comes from overseas that the Kingdom of Azeroth is seeking to re-establish economic and political ties with its estranged brethren from the north continent in the form of regular shipments of goods, information, and needed personnel that would mutually benefit our respective interests. _

_All persons reading this notice are asked to decide who they would be able to part with for such an exchange, be it themselves or one of their subordinates. Those selected will have a chance to present their case to the council, and based on the respective needs of both Theramore and Stormwind, it will be decided who will be allowed to travel back across the ocean. Understand that this exchange does not free any from their oaths of duty, and even upon their return to human lands those chosen will not simply be allowed to leave when and to where they please. Those who appear to believe that they can will be indefinitely denied to partake in this exchange. _

_The first ships will be arriving in ninety-two days, by best estimations. All persons interested are to contact the council via the regular channels as soon as possible with names and their relevant skills, as the cut-off deadline is sixty (60) days from the issuing of this notice, dated the Fifteenth of Summersky, 845 P.A. _

_Governess Jaina Proudmoore,_

_High ruler of Theramore. _

The elf blinked in astonishment, re-reading portions of the letter to make sure his sleep-addled brain wasn't deceiving him. Every word, written in the governess's elegant hand and likely magically copied for the massive distribution befitting such an announcement, rang true. The elf's eyes caught sight of more lines of text underneath the main body, fewer in number, a post-script. These he read next, with anticipation and dread growing with each beat of his heart. These were intended for him alone.

_Let it be known, also, that persons who have in the past provided exceptional service to Theramore or the Alliance as a whole will be considered for this transfer, provided that they can prove, under the strictest of guidelines, that they can once again serve in a competent manner. Eligibility and the terms of service will be judged on an individual basis. _

The elf looked up from the paper, gaze fixing on a blank spot on the wall, his mind drinking in the ramifications of the words he had just read like his mouth had drunk rum the night before. Slowly his eyes traced a path along the lines of mortar between stone blocks until they arrived at a tapestry on the wall to his left, its multi-hued and finely crafted surface depicting a great and beautiful city of white towers and walls amongst a verdant forest; Silvermoon, his former home. This was a chance to do something he had only brushed against in his deepest imaginings. His duty and discipline had broken down after the defeat of the demonic Burning Legion, he was a man without a purpose, a home, a family. It was this that had turned him into what he had become, a bitter recluse drowning in alcohol and self-pity.

He had always believed that if he had a chance, no matter how slim, to once again travel back across the ocean and search for the remains of his former life, he would take it. This was it. This letter and its contents were a balm to his tortured mind, letting it entertain possibilities that he wouldn't have permitted otherwise, lest the false hope drag him even deeper into sorrow. No longer would he be a prisoner on a tiny rock clinging to a hostile and alien continent because of circumstance, a prisoner in his tower because of his own jaded views. He would seek out his home, or what was left of it, and he would then seek out the only blood relative that he knew might still be alive, a sister who swore to stay behind and defend their already ravaged lands. A sister whose face and name, because of the most cruel and dark magicks, he could not remember. Taking in a deep, cleansing breath of sea air Crys'annadath Skychaser dared to look out his window, finally convinced that he could crawl out of the pit of despair and apathy he had allowed himself to fall prey to. Now he just had to convince the rest of the world.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

" What do I have to do to prepare you lot? Hmmm? "

The question, angrily posed to a line of perspiring recruits, hung in the humid air, taunting any among them to answer it even though its lineage marked it as pedigree rhetorical. It was the latest in a long and noble line of belligerent suppositions that had chased the heels of the twelve men and women for whom it had been decided they would join the Theramore militia. The island fortress was the only human stronghold on the wild and largely unknown continent of Kalimdor, and while it held a standing peace treaty with the Horde, who had considerably larger holdings in this part of the world, pride and logistics both dictated that when it came right down to it they would have to see to their own defenses.

This meant that while the swift and well-armed ships could guard the harbor and surrounding waters, the one land path to the fortress, terminating in a bridge over the narrow inlet that separated rocky island from salt-water swamp, needed guarding as well. With no fresh men coming from across the sea, or really, from anywhere at all, this meant a vigorous and aggressive recruiting policy was needed. This translated to anyone not absolutely necessary to the workings of the city on a daily basis being snapped up by the military and trained as a guard. Just because these unfortunates were dragged to the barrack's training grounds, however, did not guarantee they would walk away a competent militiaman after the two months of training. The Aspects knew, however, that the sergeants and officers present, often formerly of the Kul Tiras navy with generations of the military life in their blood, did their utmost to ensure that there would always be men and women on the walls who knew what end of a sword to swing at a foe.

The particular sergeant that was responsible for this squad had a reputation as a no-nonsense trainer, one who had some recruits in tears just minutes into their orientation. Perhaps it was because he had seen war first hand and knew the sort of mettle needed to look death in the face and not flinch. Perhaps it was because he had lost his family and children to the Horde in the second war, and now lived only for his duty. Perhaps it was because he added iron shavings to his oatmeal every morning as was rumored around the bunk house. Regardless, only a week into their training and three recruits were already gone, with just as many more wavering on the brink. These were not young, strapping men from farms and homesteads of Azeroth, but the progeny of prostitutes and sailors, the third sons of middle-class merchants, the acne-faced lads barely able to shave who had not yet learned their father's trade. They would not be given harsh patrol duties or participate in raids on murloc villages, yet they would need to be capable men-at-arms and mindful watchmen nonetheless. If the history books had taught the world anything, it was that war was always lurking on the horizon, and Theramore had no use for dead soldiers who didn't know how to hold a shield.

" Look at you, " the sergeant continued, pacing slowing before the line of recruits, " a jog around the inner walls and you're all gasping like landed fish. "

The sergeant, however, who had run with them the whole way, wasn't even winded, his breathing steady and calm, his brow touched by only the faintest sheen of perspiration. He was a stocky man, his broad frame packed with tanned muscle and brushed heavily with coarse black hair along his chest, arms and back, bringing to mind dwarven heritage if such a thing were possible. His hair was shorn as short as a razor could without making him bald and his large, heavily calloused hands always seemed ready to throttle someone or clasp the haft of a weapon. He was twelve stone of dyed-in-the-wool warrior, and for the next seven weeks both god and the devil to those under him.

" Perhaps jellyfish would be more appropriate. Fish at least put up a struggle when landed, but take you all away from your alehouses and your rooms at your pa's house and you just sit there limp, wilting and useless! " he sneered, leaning in close suddenly to peer deep into the eyes of one of the scrawny teens, looking for anything he didn't like in there.

" They must think I'm some sort of prophet of the Light or something, a miracle worker who can turn manure into gold, but by that same almighty Light I don't even see a bent copper's worth in you lot, " he continued, moving further along the line. The lip of one of the two women in the group quivered as he spoke, and he pounced on it like a cougar on a lost fawn. He would not tolerate weeping from those under him, likely because he had shed all of his years ago. He stood a head shorter than her, but his bearing and anger made it seem as if he towered above them all. She was really going to get it, the woman wincing in anticipation of the abusive tirade that was to follow.

Out of the corner of the sergeant's eye, though, he saw a figure stumbling along, dressed in the same faded blue tunic and short breeches that the rest of the squad wore as their uniform. The stocky man's mouth shut and instead of yelling, he turned and walked slowly along the assembled line of trainees, stopping only when he was facing where this lagging recruit would take his place beside his fellows at the end of the line. Long blonde hair clinging to his red face, uniform stained a much deeper shade of blue around the small of the back, the armpits and chest from sweat, the last recruit took his place at the end of the line, coming to face-to-face with the sergeant, whose lips twitched with anticipation. This "special" case was one of the reasons the sergeant got up in the mornings.

" I've seen the hour hand on the town hall's clock move faster than you, elf! Maybe that's why your kind lives for centuries, because it takes you so Light-blasted long to get

anywhere! "

The hot, sour-smelling air that accompanied these words slipped past Crys'annadath's face, his breathing too heavy to avoid sucking some of it in. His limbs, slick with sweat, trembled and knotted uncomfortably as he tried to remain in something that resembled an upright position. It had been this way for the past six days, and it would be so for many, many more. His body, after having endured nearly two years of sloth and heavy drinking, felt like it would fall apart every time he took a step after these training sessions were over. Feeling light-headed from the run the warmage could only waver in place and draw in deep, needy breaths while the sergeant, whom Crys was fairly certain was part troll such was his hatred of elves, tore a strip off of him at every opportunity. Like now, for instance.

" By my father's grave, if I had the power to kick you from my squad and bar you from wasting any more of my time I'd do it so fast your boots would still be standing here, ready to be filled by someone with a prayer of finishing this training. Instead, I have to suffer through your gape-mouth running and foul elven sweat for a further seven weeks. Sometimes I wish I had just died in the war that took so many good men and left me with this to work with, " the sergeant huffed, shaking his head then looking down the line to the rest of his squad.

" So do I, " Crys muttered quietly between gulps of air, drawing a smirk from the recruits closest to him, smirks which evaporated like ice in the Tanaris desert when the sergeant glared at them. Focusing his attention once again on the elven wizard the bulky soldier placed his hands on his narrow hips, staring up at the out-of-breath Quel'dorei.

" Since I can't kick you out, I can however simply see that you fail, which you are already doing a spectacular job of yourself. I don't know what whim made you decide to come play soldier while the rest of us are training to deal with real combat, but I'll personally see to it that this is the most unrewarding experience of all the wasted years of your life. Do we understand one another?! " the stocky human roared up at him once again, the same hot, sour air tickling past the elf's neck and face. Scowling Crys felt his cheeks flush even darker at the sergeant's tone and words. Something, perhaps it was elven pride, or the run in the heat had made him short-tempered, bid the wizard's tongue to action, his words spilling out before could even think of stemming the flow.

" Real combat? I've trained and fought for more years than you've been alive. I stood beside the Alliance at the foot of Mount Hyjal, fought the Scourge in Lordaeron, scoured the forests around Silvermoon for trolls even before that. I'm 471 years old and will be learning sword techniques and mysteries about the arcane long after even your tombstone crumbles to dust, so do not think to lecture me about what is real! "

A silence slipped around the line of humans then, the recruits wondering how the sergeant would react and if the elf who had decided to train with them for some reason had really done all of those things. Blinking rapidly to try and calm his raging emotions Crys picked a pennant atop the outer walls to stare at and swallowed hard. He had over-stepped his bounds, destroyed a small part of what he was trying to accomplish here. He had swore to himself he would treat this military training like he had his original training centuries ago, that he was not special or different from any other of the recruits. This was his path back to redeeming himself in so many eyes.

The sergeant shook his head in wonder, obviously expecting something like this to happen eventually.

" Is that a fact my dear wizard? And pray tell what have you done with all of that training and mystic knowledge lately? Teleported to every tavern in Theramore? Unlocked the secrets of uncorking a bottle of grog? Do elves store all their extra years in their belly? " the man asked, his eyes intense as he jabbed Crys in his soft abdomen sharply. " What a lucky man I am to have stood in the company of such a great and mighty champion, one who can't even keep up with a straw-thin lack-wit like your friend over there in a simple run, " the sergeant continued, gesturing down the line towards one of the scrawny recruits.

" I guess I'm just a dumb human though. I have to fill my short years on this world with everything I want to get done before I die, but you, you can let the idle decades slip by with not even a thought. Don't worry too much about it, you'll always have us humans around to stay focused on the things that really matter, " the man finished with a dismissive toss of his head, moving away from him.

Crys felt understandably shamed, thin fingers curled into fists as he cursed himself inwardly for giving the sergeant an opportunity to mock him thus. His condemnations were all true, which made then sting all the more as his memory of them lashed his mind, the magical addiction lancing his gut near where the residual pain of the sergeant's poke still lingered. It always flared up when Crys was feeling psychological or physical stress, and it had been as omnipresent and unforgiving on him as his trainer was turning out to be.

" Grab the practice weapons and pair off. I want to see control and technique this time, not wind-milling, do you understand me? "

" Yes sergeant! " the recruits responded as one, rushing to grab the padded swords and barrel-bottom shields to begin. Crys moved forward as well, but was stopped by the trainer's large hand on the center of his chest.

" No, not you. You don't even get to touch a practice sword until you give me a push-up for every year you've been alive, now get to it or I'll find something really hard for you to do! " he snarled, pushing the elf back lightly, but it was still enough force to nearly fell the shaky elf. Holding his tongue this time Crys knelt on the ground and, with one last glance at the sergeant's back who had turned around to observe the other recruits, began repeating the muscle-wrenching exercise over and over.

The sun beginning to slip behind the fortified city's outer walls was a welcome sight to the exhausted recruits, heralding the end of another day's training. Granted, after the evening meal there would be sessions on military deportment and law, but the grueling, physical part was behind them…until the first bell of the second watch tomorrow morning. Dragging their feet and speaking in low, breathy voices the squad would head to the barracks for a "bath", which amounted to a few buckets of water being dumped over their bodies and some lye soap, and a simple, filling meal. Crys wouldn't be joining them. He never did.

The warmage's aching feet had carried him just beyond the small island city's boundaries, over the stone bridge with its portcullis and gatehouses, until they tread upon the soft, moist earth of Dustwallow Marsh. Crys only followed the uneven stone road for a dozen or so paces, veering off to the left, long grasses curling over a nearly forgotten path tickling his bare legs as she slipped past them towards his goal. Fauna chirped, warbled and buzzed around him, the nocturnal denizens of the swamplands awaking for a night of hunting and being hunted. The elven wizard would not be out here long, the guard's warning that a crocolisk could lunge out of the water and drag him under before he could even scream, let alone receive help hastening his plodding pace.

In this forgotten, out-of-the-way locale, Crys was visiting someone. He had only done so once before, roughly a month after the incident that placed her here, when his guilt had over-ridden his desire to drown it away with more rum. He should feel guilty. He had been the one who had killed her after all, not that he had been given much choice. Grass had already over-taken the square of earth where the grave had been dug, standing only a few inches shorter than its fellows that pressing close all around it. A wooden round cross, the symbol of the Light, slouched warped and darkened by moisture in the ground before him, the grave marker nearly obscured by a patch of bushes that grew nearby. In the spring, they would be sprinkled liberally with tiny pink flowers, but the time for them was long past, bitter red berries in their place.

Crys stopped before the over-grown grave site, his right leg shaking as he locked his knees to remain upright. Flies, drawn to the scent of his sweat-coated skin, swirled around his body, occasionally landing before some tiny disturbance set them aloft once more. He did his best to ignore them, instead summoning up memories of this person and making that the focus of his attention. Her name had been Sarah Lockland, though her family name Crys had only learned after it had been burned into the wood of her marker. She was a maid by profession, cleaning and scrubbing thanklessly in the kitchens and halls of the local noblemen, earning just enough to stay in clothing and food so that she could continue working. She would rise extra-early, however, any day she could and paid a visit to the wizard's chamber high atop Greymere Tower to awaken him after a night of destroying his spell books with tearing hands and his liver with potent alcohol. She awoke him, ignoring elven curses and his slovenly appearance, ensured that he would not slip back into a booze-induced slumber, and left with an understanding smile and a bow.

It was not something that he had inititally paid her to do, but she had instead heard about him from talk in one of the manors she cleaned and decided that she wanted to reach out and help this self-destructive man, to show him that the world hadn't abandoned him completely. It was only when she began to make it a habit did Crys think to pay her for her troubles, for surrendering some of her much-needed sleep to stop by his chambers. There had been rumors at first, of course, of what he had really been paying her for, but the two of them had endured it until the petty, malicious minds that given rise to them turned their attention to something else. Even with the whispers behind her back she had never stopped coming, letting those ignorant of her true purpose remain so.

Crys needed someone like her right now, would have loved dearly to make her still be alive, even though the elf had removed all liquids except for clear water from his chamber since undertaking this journey of self-reclamation and there would be no real reason for her to visit him. She saw in him the potential to be what he once was, to once again take up arms against those that might kill and oppress those who could not fight for themselves. It was a pity that it was only long after she was gone that he found the courage and the conviction to try.

Crys spoke then, his logical mind knowing that she could not hear his quiet words but wanting to speak them just the same, to know that if she were present that they would strengthen his resolve like he so desperately needed them to.

" I want… " the elf began, then sighing in frustration as he grappled with the sense that this was all child-like foolishness, drawing strength from talking to himself near a grave. Pressing on despite his misgivings, he tried again.

" I want to apologize for not visiting more. I have no excuse. I thought of you often, well, fairly often, so I suppose that counts for something. Maybe. I'm trying to do what you wanted me to when you kept coming to my tower, to try and get past my sorrow and sense of betrayal at the rest of the world and live again. It took a chance to travel back to Azeroth to prompt me to do so, to try and find the last piece of my family that may still live, but I think it will be the faith that you showed in me that will get me there. No one else seems to think I can do it, and the bottle and the mindless bliss it promises tempt me daily, nay, hourly. It's been only a week and already I want to quit, to tell myself that she's already dead and there's nothing left for me there but more sadness. "

" But I won't, " Crys resolved, looking up to the wooden cross, blue eyes tracing along the darkened letters of her name, barely discernable even after only a year of wear. " I won't because if a chance to finally find out if she lives or not won't shake me from this path of self-destruction nothing will. They will only tolerate my drunken uselessness for so much longer, and then I will lose it all and just be another homeless beggar on Theramore's streets, or worse yet, use my power to dominate others and become that which I had fought so hard against, a magic-wielding tyrant. To do that would betray not only my past actions and suffering, but your kindness as well. I won't do that, and because of that I won't quit. I just need a little help, that's all. A reminder of what I'm striving for, of what I could become again. "

" You do that for me, your memory does that for me. I know I thanked you while you were alive for what you did, but now I thank you for what your death tells me to do. It tells me to there's still a lot of evil and suffering in the world and people dying because of it. I know that's not the reason that I'm trying to better myself, that it's pretty selfish only to pull myself up when something I care about arises, but I also know that it's going to be a long road back to my old home, and that I'll do what I can to help others along the

way. "

Crys paused, coming to the swift realization that he was turning what was already a mentally questionable activity into a rambling discourse. Speaking the words had done what he needed them to do, though, allowing him to sort his emotions out so he could summon up the will to keep doing what he was doing. He would return to training tomorrow morning, he would endure the sergeant's glares and words, the ache of his muscles and joints. The lapping of water not five paces away and the ever-darkening sky reminded the elf both of the warning regarding crocolisks and his apartment atop Greymere Tower where a comfortable chair and a meal would be waiting. Bowing his head in parting the wizard stiffly walked from the over-grown grave site, vowing that he would do something about its deplorable condition before he left for Azeroth.

A pulse of agony rippled along the long bones of his legs with each upward step along the curling staircase in the tower, leaden limbs and a barely upright head all seeking to make him a jumbled pile on the floor. Crys pressed on, teeth clenched, hand sliding along the wall for support. He could have attempted to teleport directly to his chamber, but with the strain on his concentration that his exhausted state would have given him he didn't want to end up ten feet in the air again…or on the tower's roof. Besides, his fellow recruits had no such sorcery to carry them about, and he had told himself he would endure everything that they did, just has he had when he first underwent military training. His mastery of magic was not the thing that was weak right now, but his underused and emaciated body. His magic was a tool, not a crutch.

The mage stopped gratefully at the landing before his door, hands resting on his thighs just above the knees, bent over, back heaving and the distinct, gagging feeling of wanting to retch clutching his throat. When at last he had enough strength to rise to a standing position Crys didn't so much open the door as he leaned against it and it gave way, the stagger afterwards almost sending the elf to the floor. He had left the usual protective magicks turned off as it allowed some of the tower's staff to enter and leave at will, like the one that had delivered the meal which sat on a small round table near one of the two green leather chairs set before the fire. It sat on a metal platter, covered with a domed lid but the warm food had still managed to fill the room with its scent, instantly making the wizard's stomach twist with hunger and mouth salivate.

The warmage couldn't peel off his damp, clingy clothing off fast enough, glad to be rid of the smell of partially dried sweat, tossing the crumpled, foul-smelling ball into a bin by the door. Fresh clothes had already been laid out for him along the arm of the heavily-stuffed chair he favored to sit at, but before that a bath was of the highest priority. A large metal tub of it had been dragged in, half-filled with cold water from the magical pitcher that even now Crys headed towards, his thirst overcoming all other desires for the moment. Crystal clear water, the only liquid apart from tea he allowed himself to drink now, poured forth into a waiting copper goblet, only to disappear with a series of gulping noises between the parched elf's lips. Another disappeared in a similar fashion before Crys, panting for breath, set the two aside and padded back over to the tub, thirst abated for the time being. The water would be quite cold, and heated water could be provided for him, but he didn't see the need to bother the servants with such trivialities when a minor spell would suffice.

Chanting a short verse in the magical tongue a bright orange ball appeared in the middle of the tub, causing the water immediately around it to bubble and roil fiercely. After a few moments the surface began to steam, and holding the spell until he was certain it was quite hot, dismissed the ball, which winked out leaving no trace behind. Well yes, the other recruits didn't have this, but the water they washed themselves with was at least tepid, and their laundry was done by someone else as well. Relishing the sight of the steaming tub before him for only a moment Crys eagerly stepped over the rim and into the welcoming waters, grunting slightly in discomfort as he realized that he perhaps had made the water a touch too hot. Wincing he still forced his other foot in and stood for a long moment, feeling his pores opening up, his tired feet begin to relax ever-so-slightly. Clenching his teeth tightly together Crys began to lower himself into the water, pausing with wobbling limbs several times on his way to a seated position in metal container. When at last he sat within the tub he let out a contented sigh, the burning of the water attacking and over-whelming the piercing ache that coursed along his bones and joints. In the heated bliss of the bath water even his hunger and the gnawing chill of the addiction for magic eased off a bit.

His right hand absently reached for the cool rim of a glass of rum, the fingers then curling into a fist as he sneered, eyes still tightly closed. Old habits died hard, and he was quite surprised at how much he missed drinking, even if it was not to get drunk. The taste, the pleasant, burning warmth, the memories of glasses raised to toast events both celebratory and mournful. It was all gone, every drop from his chambers he had tossed, given away or sold depending on the quality. No fine elven wine, no human brandy, no pandaren ale, and none of that devil rum the Darkspears brewed in their savage villages many miles to the north. He would not permit himself to touch a drop of it, and so far had been successful, if only barely. If he had any in his room he would have found some slippery, clever way to circumvent his own oath, tasting the liquid fiend again to bolster his resolve, or to toast Sarah's memory, or one of a hundred other tiny concessions to the ache in his mind and his body. Having endured centuries of life, studying the obscurities of elemental magic and the worlds beyond this one and standing face-to-face with death on the field of battle had given him a formidably strong will. Even it, however, like some ancient battlements that had withstood countless sieges, had cracks and chinks in its surface, one that a cunning infiltrator could find a way in, making the walls all but worthless. Crys couldn't trust himself around it, and he had too much to lose to succumb to its inebriating clutches again. Too much to lose even if his gains were but phantoms of possibility, as likely to turn out as nothing at all as they are to give him the peace of mind he needed.

The purpose of the bath once again fixed in his mind from the denial of indulgences like drink Crys set about scrubbing himself clean with soap inset with boiled pine needles to give it both a rough texture and a fresh scent. Sweat and grime quickly fled his reddened skin, the remainders of the day's excursions floating away in the hot water, leaving him refreshed to endure the very same the next day. It would get easier, he reminded himself, it had too, because he honestly couldn't see it getting harder than it already was to greet each dawn knowing the sort of physical and psychological battle he would have to wage just to see the next one.

Satisfied with his cleansing Crys relished the water for a few minutes more before grasping the sides of the tub and shakily raising himself out of the water, feeling like a venerable human man as he did so. Water trickled off his tall body and into the tub below, a simple yet plush towel within arm's reach. Grabbing for it the warmage's eyes glanced over the room and stopped as they noticed a full length mirror standing near the door, used to check over one's appearance before exiting the chamber. He had it covered up for the longest while since the sight of his bleary-eyed and unshaven countenance only depressed him further, but since beginning the training and giving up drinking he had taken the shroud of cloth off of it.

The elf that looked back at him from that mirror was a sad figure, the glistening water creating a sheen in the soft light over the unsightly bulges and folds created by his belly, revealing keenly the well-padded areas of his thighs, chest and shoulders were the fat was beginning to creep outwards, threatening to overtake his normally lean body completely. Crys was tempted to look away, but squared his jaw and even hunched his back a bit to show himself what he had allowed himself to become, what his grief and self-loathing had done to one who fight and march with the best of them just years prior. The mirror would be his reminder and his goal-marker, showing him what he was now and allowing him to track his progress as his regime continued over the coming weeks. He would look upon himself with pride by the end of the two months; at what his resolve and willpower had forged from this grotesque parody of normal elven perfection. Deciding that he was quite finished with his self-chastisement Crys looked away and stepped out of the tub, toweling himself off vigorously with long strokes of the thick cloth, sweeping away the water and the residual grime in it. Finished as well as his aching, tried arms could manage the wizard shuffled over and dressed himself, the cloth of next day's uniform clinging uncomfortably to the areas of his body that were still damp.

Washed and dressed and stomach churning he flopped gracelessly into the leather chair and dragged the table closer with the high-pitched scraping of wood over stone. Drawing the silver cover aside a sizeable meal of roast pork in a thin gravy, diced, fried potatoes and boiled spinach leaf sat on a white dish, a steel three-tined fork partially obscured by the rim of the plate ready for use. The meal was only slightly warm, he quickly found out, his little side trip to Sarah's grave site throwing off what was the usually impeccable timing of the tower's kitchen staff, but his hunger was quite forgiving. The spinach, despite his own reminders that it was quite nutritious, he barely touched, the texture of the now cold dark green leaves beyond his capacity to endure. The supper was washed down with more water, Crys reluctantly climbing out of the comfortable embrace of the plush chair to retrieve the magical pitcher and the cup he had drunk from earlier.

Covering the now depleted plate with the same metal cover Crys slouched in his seat, copper chalice resting on the left arm rest of the chair, pitcher on the floor beside him. He ached terribly, particularly his biceps, shoulders and upper chest from the push-ups he had had to do until even the sergeant had taken pity upon him and allowed him to stop. Holding up his right arm the wizard felt the strain even from that simple action, his fingers quivering from the effort. He let the appendage slump to the arm rest, sighing in frustration. To think he would have to do more of the same the very next morning, ashamed of his lagging pace and trembling limbs, the way his sagging body jostled and sweat formed in between the fleshy folds. He was a Quel'dorei, one of a near immortal race born of hardship and sacrifice, dedicated to the study of the arcane, blessed with fair looks and voice. He had never felt more disassociated from his own kin than he did right now. His grief had conquered him, ruled his life for such a short amount of time by elven standards, yet it had marked him so, turning him into someone to be pitied rather than envied.

Through a supreme act of will Crys crawled out of the comfortably warmed easy chair and stumbled his way over to the long table that sat on the edge of the rug on the floor, but three paces from the west window. The table sat in much the same condition it had for the past two years, excepting the pages scattered about were all of the same sort, unlike previously when anything he was too lazy to bother returning to the shelves was laid there instead. Half-finished charcoal sketches, sometimes two or more subjects to a piece sat malformed and dejected on most of the pages, vaguely discernable as to what or who they were supposed to resemble. His hand, unsteady from the intense exercise and lack of practice they were somewhere within the artistic range of a talented child, the lines thick and hesitant, often sketched over several times to get the proper curve or angle. Nothing like the clean, confident lines he scratched onto parchment in the past, recording the details of what he had just witnessed with his in-born gift, the Sorcerous Sight. More than a few troll leaders or Scourge commanders had their fate sealed when Crys drew an unmistakable likeness of them prior to an attack, allowing archers or fellow mages to pick them out of a group and quickly cut off the head of the force they fought against, sowing disorganization and confusion amongst their enemies.

That was gone now, withered like a plant denied water, a twisted mockery of its former robust form. The warmage could make out who those he sketched were only because he was the one drawing them. People whose faces he knew well; Dagmor, Jaina, Edward, Sarah, old teachers, his parents….

Blue eyes flicked over to where a number of drawings sat apart from the rest, heavily laden with charcoal and half of them crushed into angry little balls. They were sketches of a particular elf, a female, but where her face was supposed to be only an empty, smudged hole gaped back at him. Others were occupied with frenzied maelstroms of black lines, Crys taking his frustrations of not being able to remember his sister's face out on the parchment, frequently snapping the thin dark sticks he drew with in several pieces as well. He had hoped that might be able to coax something out of his tattered memories by drawing her, by working on what he did remember and trying to move along the periphery, skirting it like he were a on a boat looking to make port, searching for a welcoming inlet of recognition. It was not so. The magic that the banshee's claws had possessed was too strong to be overcome with mere concentration and hours of desperate sketching. She was fully and truly gone from his mind, and yet he was suffering so much just for a chance to find her again. It was a situation as pitiful as he himself had become, just another casual cruelty life had tossed his way.

While his fellow trainees were learning the basics of deployment and tactics, things that Crys himself had been taught centuries before, he was trying to nurture his skill with drawing back, trying to force his clumsy and trembling fingers to produce something resembling what he pictured in his mind. While his body begged for rest the lone elf dragged a wooden stool out from under the table and eased himself onto its circular top. Pinching the edge of a nearby piece of parchment between his index and middle fingers Crys pulled it towards him and, once it was in place directly before him, he foraged around for a suitably sized stick of charcoal. Soot already besmirching his formerly clean hand the elven wizard bent his mind and back to the task of sketching an image of Sarah smiling happily at him. He needed to see her smile right now.

He would do this for over an hour, scowling and squinting at his work, adding touches and then sighing tersely as he realized he should have left well enough alone. Finally, with the muscles along his spine writhing in discomfort and his cramping hand forced into a painful claw Crys surrendered to the lure of sleep, leaving the drawing tool and parchment where they lay and shuffling towards the green wooden door behind which his bedroom lay. With a long and tortured grunt he laid back onto the very welcoming feather mattress, asleep within a matter of moments. On the oaken table the rough but recognizable features of a human woman with a mane of wavy hair and a broad grin peered up from a piece of parchment. If any who had known Sarah in life had cast their gaze upon it, they too would have been able to pick up on the distinctive features unique to the maid, unlike the other misshapen and malformed caricatures littered on the page around her.

Little-by-little his drawings were improving in quality. Little-by-little it was becoming easier.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Crys's ragged footfalls seemed to jar every inch of him, rising from the heels of his feet as they struck the hard packed dirt and rippling along his tried body, finally terminating at his clenched jaw. His head was pounding like an industrious dwarven smithy, dual hammers of his blood rushing by his ears and pain hammering at the tendons long the back of his neck forging a remarkably miserable run. Hands curled into fists tightly as he forced them back and forth in a rhythmic pendulum motion he focused on the sweat-stained tunic of the figure before him, feeling his eyes drift out of focus as his world came little more than the ground one step ahead of him and the panting of his fellow trainees. It had been a month, a long, agonizing month since the beginning of his physical redemption and the elf felt the weight of each and every one of those days hanging from his bent neck. It was lucky now that he was able to bear the weight and not collapse under it.

Each footfall also told the elf how much less of him there was for the impacts to jostle, the warmage no longer feeling as if his torso was clad in sweaty half-filled water skins and flopped about revoltingly as he ran. He was making progress. The first two weeks had been the real hurdle, the most grueling physically and mentally, where every step felt like it was up a steep hill, where the progress made from one day to the next was indistinct and as always the siren call of rum daily threatened to smash his delicate ship of willpower against it. Four more recruits had dropped out over the past three weeks, leaving them with a tidy number of eight, each day the sergeant turning the thumb- screws just a little tighter to see if any more would crack under the strain. It was unlikely, however, as by this time the recruits, like Crys, had become accustomed to what was doing to be demanded of them on a daily basis, to remain calm and impersonal when the subject of the sergeant's wrath. The elven wizard was quite pleased that so far, despite several baiting attempts and as always the brunt of his superior's ill-temper he had not snapped back like he had several weeks before.

When at last the training grounds were in sight the recruit ahead of Crys, the only one before the gasping elf, began to sprint as the clock started to chime the beginning of the second watch, the sergeant stipulating that they would have from the time they were mustered outside the barracks till then to complete their roughly four mile run. Crys has the sneakiest suspicion that their sergeant was waking them up a little later each day so that they would have to run just a little harder to meet his deadline. Failure to meet that deadline was far worse than the strain it took to accomplish it, providing ample motivation for everyone to do their best. Crys learned quite painfully the first few days the sergeant started this new trend in sadism as the warmage showed up to find the others already well on their way, the elf having to practically sprint to catch up and then doggedly keep up until the very end. Living in his own apartments far from the barracks was, as ever, a mixed blessing in regards to his training.

Nearly stumbling from his efforts to push himself for this last little stretch Crys finally came to a breathless halt an arm's length to the left of the other recruit, trying to desperate remain upright while every signal his body told him was to lie prone and focus solely on breathing to feed his oxygen-hungry muscles. Wavering slightly the elf enjoyed what tiny breeze was stirred as his fellow recruits rushed to their positions in the line, all gulping in huge volumes of air but managing to remain relatively still in their stances. The faintest ringing of the last bell still hung audibly in the air when the sound of footfalls ceased, the scowling sergeant eyeing his recruits critically, as if deciding if he should begin to enforce the punishment for such a narrow success. Closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing Crys'annadath suddenly winced and bent at the waist slightly as the magical addiction speared an icicle of raw need into his lower abdomen. The elven wizard had failed to spend the necessary time that morning to sacrifice some of his reserved energies to feed the gaping hole in his metaphysical make-up and was paying for it now. Unfortunately, this moment of weakness was all the sergeant needed to make up his mind.

" Grab the rucksacks you dainty housemaids. Just barely is not good enough in my books and if you have any complaints about it, take it up with the elf here, he's the one who gobbled down his fancy breakfast too hastily and is cramping up, " the stocky man snorted with a humorless smile, quite pleased with himself. Stifled groans rippled down the line as the recruits all moved reluctantly towards the sand-filled leather packs resting against the wall of the nearby mess hall. Dark looks accompanied muttered curses just loud enough for sharp elven ears to hear plainly as the already tired men and women donned the weighty packs, one even shouldering Crys aside as he reached for a pack of his own. The elf rankled at the aggressive gesture but forced himself to remain calm, lips pursed in an expression of barely restrained anger. The sergeant had in the past week attempted to heap whatever failing the group had upon the elf's slender shoulders, seeing how his own personal berating had failed to drive the wizard from his training grounds.

Crys didn't break his fast in his personal chambers before coming here, preferring to eat when his fellow recruits did after the morning run, but none of them knew that, instead more than happy to make him the subject of their ire when the sergeant came down on them all for some infraction. The life of privilege that none of them had ever enjoyed was more than reason enough to keep Crys at arms length and not give him the benefit of the doubt. Grunting at the two-stone weight now pressing on un-padded straps from his shoulders the perspiring Quel'dorei started to jog, the smells of roast ham and toasted bread tugging seductively on his rumbling stomach as he left the cookhouse behind, not coming within sight of it again until nearly an hour later.

The morning meal of cold meat and bread was still fresh in the minds of this fellow recruits when they were given the battered wooden swords and shields used for weapons training. Since the count was eight plus Crys and the elf had prior experience two of the recruits were always paired up to double-team him. The sergeant said it helped them build teamwork and how to cover one another's flanks in a fight. Crys'annadath also suspected that it allowed more painful jabs or strikes to land on the elf than if he were only facing one opponent.

Soon the clacking of wood on wood and the grunts of effort accompanying swings filled the area, the strikes of many of the guards-in-training still a little hesitant but certainly more controlled and purposeful than they were when the wooden weapons were hefted for the first time weeks prior. Few elves were trained with shields, the elven mind and physique did not lend itself well to going toe-to-toe with quite frequently stronger and larger opponents, plus a shield was far too cumbersome to wield in addition to a bow, by far the preferred method of combat. Still, dealing with two opponents and unable to work magic tested the elven wizard's skill with the blade, for every strike averted he was grateful it was the round wooden shield absorbing the blow and not some portion of him, both the shield and all the bones along his left forearm vibrating from each strike.

Despite being only half-way through his training the warmage was beginning to grow tired of the exclusively human company, their glowering looks, their desire to show themselves better than him. Everything he did was an affront to them, his victories only made them hate him more, his failings reinforcing their belief that elves weren't the superior race they thought they were. The sergeant encouraged this attitude both covertly and openly, if his own belligerence wasn't enough to drive Crys away then perhaps the animosity of his fellow trainees would be the reed that broke the kodo's back. It hadn't worked yet, but every day was a struggle to remain in control of his own temper. Any outburst would just mark another victory for the sergeant and the rest of the squad.

The forceful yet unrefined swings of the wooden swords, the faces of his foes taut with a mix of concentration and fierce glee, this all harkened back to the elf's own days of training, centuries ago, when he was squared off against other Quel'dorei in Slivermoon City. Days spent sparring in the shadow of the Huntress of the Sun statue along with dozens of others wearing uniforms of crimson and gold and wielding wooden swords crafted with more skill and care than most real ones a human would carry. The trainers there were as strict as any but they also treated those they taught with quiet respect, their corrections curt and biting comments rather than the loud, foul-mouthed tirades the human sergeant was so fond of. Morning runs were refreshing and invigorating, high elves sprinting lightly across neatly trimmed lawns of emerald green or paths of alabaster stone, drinking in the dignified aesthetics of the city around them while they shook off the previous night's slumber. After the day's training was over the recruits would relax in Falconwing Square supping magically-cooled spring water or light and tangy wines, chatting peaceably or stooping to pet one of the many cats that were allowed to roam freely throughout Silvermoon, adding their own detached regality to the proud elven capital.

The summers were so much milder in that more northern clime, not like the thick, oppressive heat and humidity that cloaked Theramore daily bearing down uncomfortably on all those who labored there. The island nation was nearly sub-tropical in its weather, the occasional coconut from palms hundreds of miles to the south along the shores of the Tanaris desert sprouting on Theramore's rock-choked beaches and generally doing very well. Crys was very certain he could have gone his whole life, impressive in its length, without seeing another palm tree, associating it, perhaps a little unfairly, with the sort of hot, muggy weather he had endured for the past two years.

The mental meandering the wizard had unwittingly initiated continued on until he found himself reviewing his very first taste of combat, hundreds of years prior yet so clear in his mind he half-expected to look down the see the blood spattered upon his uniform still drying. It was like a first love, in some perverse way: you never forget the face, the time of year, or how you parted ways.

The gentle rustling of falling leaves as they drifted down upon the forest floor, winding their way between branches and their stubborn kin still clinging to their wooden perches covered the approach of the elven patrol, each making about as much noise. Uniforms dyed a deep, rich scarlet and edged with golden thread so fine that it almost looked as if it were the metal itself covered their lithe, running forms, the slight rustle of cloth, clatter of quivered arrows knocking against one another and the exhalations of their breaths inaudible more than ten paces away. It was mid-day, or near enough to be called so, the golden sun growing more distant with each passing week yet providing enough warmth that the Quel'dorei could not see their breath even labored as it was.

A raised fist from the elf in the lead and the eight other members of the war party slowed to a stop within three strides, forming a chevron with the leader at its very point, leaves of amber and orange drifting away from leather-sheathed feet with barely a whisper. The elves remained that way for several moments, their bodies as tense as the strings notched in their elaborately carved bows, ready to pour arrows into any foe that showed so much as an inch of flesh to their eyes.

Crys'annadath calmed his breath and tried to do the same with his heart, right hand curled up and to the back like the tail of a striking scorpion, index and middle fingers brushing lightly against the fletching of an arrow. Every member of his novice patrol was in a like position, spaced out into what was called the " Hawk's Wings", a formation meant to form over-lapping fields of fire from the flanks and the fore, with the aim of the most experienced member of the patrol, the ranger at the lead, unobstructed even in the periphery. Crys had no idea why Ranger Tarth'anan Brightcrown had signaled them to stop, but two decades of training and indoctrination had taught him to obey without hesitation or question, and that the senses of a ranger were far keener than their own.

" Keep your fingers fletched and your lashes parted, novices. The woods around here have been crawling with Amani trolls looking to get some pillaging done to fatten up their larders before the winter snows lay upon the land. After the first snowfall the borders of Quel'thalas will have little to fear until the annual Winter Warpath on the solstice, " Ranger Brightcrown said in a hushed voice, his trademark long golden hair ablaze in the sunlight like a halo, the mark of a true member of the Brightcrown family.

Scowling slightly and turning his face to the side a green eye fastened on Crys for a moment, full of baleful reproach.

" Control your breathing, Skychaser, you sound like waves crashing against the shore. "

Crys'annadath shrunk a little from the ranger's terse words, doubling his efforts to remain as silent and still as his compatriots. Twenty years of training and he still felt like a child crashing heedlessly through the underbrush compared to those like Brightcrown.

" From this point on we walk, arrows notched, Striding Wolf formation, " the ranger continued, returning his gaze forward, " They'll be no reprimands from your instructors out here, novices. The trolls will be happy to let you know you were too loud with a spear or axe in your skull and I for one am sick of carrying back accruements from a dead scout to be re-issued to someone with hopefully more sense. "

Once done with his speech Brightcrown lapsed into silence once again, motioning for the rest to follow his careful pace, the green-fletched arrow of a ranger already nestled comfortably against the string of his bow.

With a slight rasp and a delicate shuffling of leaves the other eight scouts drew arrows and arranged themselves roughly two bow-lengths apart in two rows, the four in each row paired up and watching the flanks while the last two swept their gazes over the rear, the ranger alone watching ahead of the war party. Crys'annadath was one of the two watching the squad's rear, eyes scouring every tiny detail of the surrounding forest, looking for something that didn't belong. Normally, Crys loved this time of year, with the massive white-barked Dawnleaf oaks littering the forest floor with leaves of yellow ochre tinted carmine along the slender veins, the crisp, bracing chill in the air, the smell of warm cider and roasting chestnuts from one of the many carts along the Walk of Elders.

There was nothing familiar or comforting about these woods now; instead each root arcing out of the ground, each Silverleaf bush, every sheltering bough could hide a troll waiting to strike. It disturbed the elf that the woods that were the home of the Quel'dorei, so beloved and so hard fought to maintain could still hold menace and danger to those living peaceably within its bounds. The Amani had warred against the Quel'dorei for millennia, the exiled elves fashioning a home from what they could wrest from the forest trolls who had lived there since time in memoriam and who continued to this day to drive the invaders from their territory. The ceaseless battle had made both sides strong and cunning, each sending their young out to bloody their blades for the first time against their enemies and either return a warrior, or a corpse.

Crys began to pick up on the movements of his comrades, who had taken to pausing for the briefest of moments mid-stride before continuing, heads and eyes swiveling like a group of cranes carefully seeking minnows along the muddy lake bed. The forest had become still and tense, while something nearby stalked along just as carefully as they were, correction _somethings._ The information came to the patrol not on any one sense, but from small contributions from all five, naturally sharp and honed to an even finer edge, millennia of living amongst nature making each and every Quel'dorei attuned to its nuances and fluxuations. It was a pity that the trolls had known the forests for thousands of year before that.

The attack wasn't a surprise, but it also wasn't completely expected. One moment everything was silent and the next spears were sailing through the air from both side and hunched muscular trolls smeared with mud and a sprinkling of autumn leaves burst from the underbrush. They howled as they ran, hoping to unnerve the recruits by shouting words in their coarse tongue, stone hatchets with chipped edges raised to slice through the elves' durable yet thin armor.

The response was just as swift, elven bodies twisting and ducking to avoid the spear throws while loosing their prepared arrows, the range meant that missing was next to impossible for these trained archers and the power behind the shaft enough to bury up to the fletching into unarmored flesh. Trolls fell, as did two elves who where not quite nimble enough, the difference there however was that the trolls were stone dead, pierced through the heart and eye, while the tightly woven outfits the recruits wore bore the worst of the spear head's force, piercing flesh but not the cloth over it. A culmination of centuries of both the weaver's and the magister's respective crafts they nevertheless still had limits, and did not cover every inch of the warrior's body.

Crys'annadath had waited as a spear flew high over his left shoulder to loose his arrow, drawing a bead on a troll who seemed to have had the same thing in mind, charging directly at the recruit with an axe with a chopping head the size of a banquet platter. The wooden shaft flew lightning quick over the handle, little more than a flash of white fletching to his eyes. The massive, tusked warrior lurched to the side suddenly in an effort to avoid it, but the arrowhead still sunk into troll flesh and the attacker staggered back a pace from the pain and the force, head reeling. Crys expected him to drop to the ground with the rest of those slain, but when the troll's head tilted back up the elf knew he had missed something vital. The arrow had pierced the troll's small, muscular cheek near his jawbone, half of the bloodied shaft still protruding from the side of his face. Reaching up with a hand composed of two thick, clawed fingers and a thumb the troll mercilessly ripped the gory object from his head, regarding both it and the elf who fired it with the same contempt before resuming his charge, his body already healing the flesh wound.

Crys had never dropped a bow and drawn his sword as fast as he did that day, and even still he was barely in time to deflect the troll's axe swing past him, pushing it off to his left side while his feet began to shift underneath him, his movements as practiced and smooth as an avid ballroom dancer. Crys rotated fully, eyes never leaving his opponent as he whipped his light, finely balanced blade around for a strike at the troll's left flank. The troll saw the strike coming and rolled his body away, the keen steel leaving only a thin line of blood along his mud-caked ribs. The forest troll's brawny right arm swept up from it low position, intent on striking Crys with the flat of the axe head to knock the much lighter elf off balance to line up a more telling blow seconds later. It was the novice warrior's turn to roll with the strike, still feeling his feet almost leave the ground completely and arm burst with sudden pain. Anything less and a bone might have fractured.

All around him the battle had shifted from careful shots with bows to a frenzied and deadly dance of weaving steel and stone, the Quel'dorei patrol still out-numbered slightly despite having lost no one yet. The trolls with their larger physiques and long reach attempted to pen the elves in close together so that their superior agility would be compromised by their fellows, but the elves were trained to expect such a tactic, one learned decades past and paid for in spilt blood and lost lives. Quick, twisting elven steel bit and stung in a dozen places on troll opponents, driving them back, distracting, teasing the tusked humanoids into giving into their bloodlust and leaving themselves open to a more lethal blow. They too, had been warned of such elven trickery, and held their anger in check, waiting for their own chance to strike.

Crys's sword sang cleanly through the autumn air, small flecks of dark troll blood spattering against the golden canvas of leaves at his feet. The small cuts served another purpose in addition to enraging the trolls into doing something foolish; as amazing as a troll's vaunted regeneration abilities were, it could be overwhelmed and marginalized to the point of almost non-existence. Each and every wound inflicted forced the troll's body to respond, healing it. Wounds were healed in the order in which they were received, so if it were already healing six smaller wounds and suddenly a much larger, nearly fatal one was inflicted, it would slow the regeneration process down, perhaps allowing the troll to bleed out before sealing it. What a completely unharmed troll could endure as a serious but survivable wound could kill a weakened one. It was just one of the many bits of information that had been discovered from thousands of years of killing each other over the forests each called home.

On the outside the young Crys seemed calm, controlled, even arrogant, his face a stern masked of distain and concentration. Inside, he was assaulted by a maelstrom of emotion and fear, threatening to boil over from under the lid of training had given him to control such things. He had never fought for his life before, never drawn blood with the intent to kill, never stared into the eyes of another sentient creature and saw the desire to kill him there staring back at him. It was frightening, it was exhilarating and his was his reality now.

Hand already calloused from the wire grip on his long sword growing hot from friction Crys decided could afford to waste no more time on his troll. He could worry about dispatching a foe with swordplay alone when he had centuries of fighting under his belt, right now, he needed to kill and he needed to kill fast. Crys's left hand, used as little more than a counter-balance up to his point tingled as the warmage-in-training began to summon up magical energy there, keeping his sword weaving and opponent distracted from his true purpose. When at last the energy was gathered in a low-ranked but still effective fire blast Crys swung at the troll's head, forcing it to duck off to the left, where the elf's off hand was already rising to meet it. Swirling flames the heat of a forge had gathered on the surface of his palm, and with the simplest of mental releases it shot violently outwards catching the troll unawares and full in the face.

The scream that followed was surprisingly high-pitched for such a large creature, his opponent staggering back, swinging wildly, the formerly sharp, feral features of its face blunted, charred and smoking. Crys pushed his considerable advantage, dodging the clumsy attempts at self-defense and striking again and again with quick stabs into the troll's torso. As the troll weakened the stabs became sweeping arcs, slicing wide gouges as blood continued to gather around and on the two locked in combat. At one point the troll collapsed backwards, axe fallen from its fingers to lie useless beside the prone humanoid, arms raised and flailing, panicking as the blows continued to rain down. Overhand strikes were all the Crys could think to do now, gouging horrible wounds and cutting chunks of flesh and extremities off with each raise of the now blood-sheathed blade while the troll continued to gurgle and wail.

The elf wasn't quite sure how much time at passed but suddenly he heard a sharp, demanding sound and the fight around him came flooding back.

Brightcrown was calling to him.

" Skychaser! He's dead and there's plenty more, snap to! "

Crys'annadath looked back down at his larger opponent, or rather, what was left of it. The fine elven blade was held with both hands now for maximum strength behind each rise and fall, blood dripping from the cross guard and his white-gripped knuckles, splattered on his uniform, the lifeless troll on the ground a sickening mess of deep, haphazard cuts. Crys hadn't killed this troll, he had butchered it, changing from a lithe and technical swordsman to a cleaver-wielding savage in the span of a heartbeat. There was no training here, only brute strength and primal instinct. Crys felt sick, his shoulders and arms knotted from all the twisting and swinging he had just engaged in. _This was no time to lose yourself_, he told himself inwardly, forcing his eyes from what he had wrought and turning them to the continuing struggle between ancient foes.

They won that day, centuries ago. Two the patrol were seriously injured however, and they immediately began to return to the Farstrider's Retreat after binding their wounds and leaning on their bow staves for support for the trip back. Brightcrown, with a detachment born of hundreds of years of battle and likely just as many slain foes relieved the dead trolls of their tusks with a serrated knife forged for just that purpose, tucking the ivory bones in a rucksack. The entire outer wall of the Retreat was "decorated" with those tusks gathered in such a fashion, both a warning to trolls who saw it and a silent boast to the prowess of those within. It was a macabre ritual, and slightly puzzling to Crys, who knew that while the trolls did something similar with Quel'dorei scalps and skulls on totems at the edges of their villages, the high elves were not at all like the savage, cannibalistic trolls. At least it had puzzling before that day, the warmage-in-training finally seeing the unthinking brutality that lurked in his own heart.

Others stooped to gather up a trophy as well, likely to be shown around at the taverns to admiring fellow recruits or young ladies as a symbol of their bravery and skill. Crys found he couldn't even look at the ground, keeping his eyes up and focused on the trees ahead of him, not wanted to have what he had done pushed back in his face. Later, when the patrol made it back to civilization and he was in the privacy of his quarters Crys'annadath wept without quite knowing why, imbibed too much wine and fell asleep atop his bed. The next day, the memory haunted him but no longer with the same piercing vividness, already dulled by the passage of time. Something had changed in the elf that day, something he could never quite explain or recover, and while years later he could look back on it dispassionately, yet he could never, ever forget it completely.

Just as his younger self had been snapped back to reality by his commander calling out his name the sharp sting of a wooden sword striking his right shoulder brought the current Crys back to the here and now. _Right, the training_. The warmage winced from the pain and shook his head to clear the fog of old memories. It seemed that these humans, just like the trolls years prior, were not going to be very forgiving if his attention were to wander for even a moment.

Readjusting his grip on both his wooden sword and shield Crys fended off a rapid series of testing blows from both of his opponents, the two trying to drive him back against a nearby building but like the trolls trying to herd the elven patrol close together, Crys wasn't going to let that happen. Instead, the elf spun sideways, striking both with his sword and shield, doing little other than batting their swords aside and pushing them both back a little but that was his goal. The pair didn't let up, however, swinging wide and battering at both of his flanks, the 'clack' of wood-on-wood growing louder and faster as the strikes and parries increased in frequency. The elven wizard's arms and shoulders ached from the barrage but considering the alternative he would have to endure it.

When at last the two assailants, winded from their vigorous attack, paused to give their arms a break the elf retaliated with sweeping strokes of his own, batting at their wooden blades. The two parried effectively enough but Crys had expected that, and continued, apparently doing nothing more than they had. The trick here was that each time the elven warmage struck, it was in the same place on both opponents, drawing their blades back to the same place time and time again. When at last Crys'annadath was certain he had established a pattern, he feinted another of the same attack on the human on the left, but with a subtle twist of his wrist send the blade at a different angle. The trick worked, the human, expecting another attack at the same spot moved to parry and while his blade struck Crys's it did not stop the tip from jabbing him painfully in the lower abdomen, the blunted wooden point impacting the soft tissue there. The human grunted and recoiled from the blow, anger and surprise easily visible on his thick features. Crys allowed himself only the slightest of smiles before focusing his attentions on the remaining human.

It was a surprise then, when the human that Crys had just "dispatched" charged at him again, vengeance in his eyes and sword raised high. The other human, taken aback by the first's ferocity backed off a pace, watching to see the outcome. The blows rained down on Crys, each strike jarring his teeth and battering at his defenses savagely. Scowling against the pain and the human's ignoring of the rules of sparring that the sergeant had laid out days before Crys did his best to fend off the attacks and look for an opening to strike back. When it presented itself, the human recruit too focused on trying to hurt the elven wizard to defend himself properly, Crys's wooden blade swept low to high, aiming for the arm pit, a strike that reminded him of lethal blow he delivered almost a year ago fighting assassins in Stonesmite's smithy. The strike landed perfectly, the human stifling a cry of pain and staggering off to his left, arms clamped against his side tightly. Crys released a deep breath of air from is lungs and tried to still his racing heart. It was the closest he had come to actual combat in quite some time and aside from a few fist-fights probably the first the human had.

Face contorted with pain and rage the recruit staggered around, holding his arm and attempting to shake off the nauseating feeling the strike to an area of major blood flow gave him. The other human remained where he was, concerned for the welfare of his fellow recruit but unsure how to help him. When at last the larger of the two was able to stand up straight without getting dizzy, shoulders heaving from his deep breaths, he fixed the elven warmage with a vehement look, apparently contemplating something. Crys raised his sword and shield once again warily, shaking his head and giving a cold look of his own back to the human recruit.

Spitting on the ground and charging forward once more, all fury and brute power the human smashed into the elf's defenses, the savagery of the first strike sent his shield flying off his arm, the second twisting Crys's arm around painfully as he attempted to parry the strike coming at his shoulder. There was no reasoning with his opponent, something within him had just snapped and he wouldn't be happy until the elf was in a bloodied, crumpled heap at his feet. _That must have been what my face looked like to that troll, all those years ago_, the warmage thought as he back-pedaled to avoid another swing, chilled by the thought.

A scything blow came at him from above, aiming for his skull. " Enough! " the elf roared, throwing his arms up instinctively to defend himself, at the same instant a glowing blue shield of magical energy sprung into being around him, the descending wooden blade striking the barrier and slid off harmlessly. Straightening up from his slightly cowering position Crys watched as the enraged human swung at the shield a few more times, seeking a weakness but finding none.

" What in the nether is going on over here?! " a bellowing voice demanded, all eyes swiveling to view the source, all wooden weapons stilling. The sergeant came stomping through the gathering of recruits, shouldering aside those who did not move fast enough, stopping only when he stood before Crys and the large human he had been fending off.

He eyed the elf first, hard eyes tracing along the edges of the protective bubble, then glanced at the human recruit, still gasping for breath.

" I asked you a question! " the sergeant demanded from them both.

Crys was the first to answer, his tone low and accusing.

" He received a wound in a vital area not once but twice and refused to yield, ignoring the rules you had set at the beginning of our training. "

The human, naturally, protested indignantly.

" Scratches, both of them, " he lied " you panicked when you started facing off against a real warrior and hid behind your fancy-ass magic, afraid to get a scratch on your dainty skin. "

" Does this look like I'm afraid to get scratched? " Crys snarled back, holding up his right hand to show the missing upper part of his little finger, sheared off by a sword, then hauling up his left sleeve to show the thick, pale scar just below his shoulder from a wound that had cut to the bone. A wound that a year ago had killed him, the intervention of a paladin the only reason the elf was still in this world and not in the next. The human said nothing but still glowered at him, his temper tantrum difficult to defend in the cold light of reason.

The sergeant, his eyes never losing their edge finally reached an internal decision regarding the incident.

" You, " he said, pointing at the human recruit, " keep control of your swings and work with your partner rather than by yourself. We're training soldiers here, not thugs. "

" You, " he continued, then swiveling his finger and gaze to Crys, " no magic on my training grounds, _ever._ "

With that the burly sergeant gave the elf a look that told him not only that he meant what he said but that he had likely seen the whole incident, only asking them to explain themselves to see what sort of answers he would get.

Crys knew better than to argue the point.

The stairs kept coming, but Crys could handle them. His legs still protested each and every lift and strain, but he no longer felt like they were going to give up from under him. That was progress. When he finally made it to the landing just before his chamber's door he paused there, looking out over Theramore, rubbing his cramping thighs. It was odd that the worst years of his life were spent here, but somewhere along the line he had begun to consider the fortress-city home. Perhaps it was because he had given up on ever returning to his real home, an ocean and a continent away, and bitterly decided that this drab, utilitarian island state would be his final resting place. It almost had been. As quickly as the fond thoughts came they left. This was not his home, this was little more than a prison, his living quarters atop Greymere Tower his personal cell, rum and regret his jailors. The elven wizard turned his back on the sight of Theramore, as he knew he would forever one day in the near future, and entered his apartments.

The interior was worlds apart from the dreary, dust-coated tomb he has let it become. Wood gleamed, leather and crystal shone and paint fairly glowed in the sunlight streaming in through the open west window. The efforts of the tower's cleaning staff—finally allowed to enter the chamber after being denied for almost two years—had worked a small miracle on the neglected furnishings, making it seem as if the elf had just moved in the week previous. There was too much history between Crys and the chamber for him to truly believe that, but it was heartening to entertain the thought nevertheless.

Shucking his boots by the door as he closed it the wizard padded bare-foot over to the buffet with the white pitcher and metallic goblets, filling one and supping the cool, clear water gently. It was a far cry from the open-mouth gasping in-between swigs he experienced a month ago, and Crys, for one, did not miss it. Once his thirst was slaked the grimy uniform came off in stages as the elf slowly made his way over to the filled tub between him and the covered meal that awaited him on a small table beside the green leather chair. Once the water was the perfect temperature he eased himself into the water with an exhalation of pure bliss. This bath was the highlight of his days, except perhaps when his head hit the pillow.

Letting the hot water soak away the stench and glares of humans from his body and mind evolved into a thorough and vigorous scrub with a fresh bar of the pine-scented soap imported from the northern forests. Crys didn't care much for night elves, but on a continent largely inhabited by races that seemed more beast than man he would put his prejudices aside and use their soap. Rising from his seated position he let the water trickle off, squeezing a sandy brown sponge to clear away any residual soap. Reaching for the nearby towel Crys glanced over to the full-length mirror, as he had at the end of every bath since he started the training regime.

The glistening figure staring back at him didn't invoke the same disgust it had a month ago, yet there was still much to be done. The fat was retreating, shrinking back, leaving behind only sleek, toned muscle in its wake. The elf's old clothes were just beginning to fit him again, though they still strained around his torso uncomfortably, a feeling that drove the elven wizard to continue his physical recovery. He would face many trying times in the coming months, through most of it having no one but himself to rely on to see him through it. A slight smile crossed the wizard's lips as he looked away, a smile of gentle satisfaction. The change he could not even imagine weeks ago was starting to be realized.

There was a letter beside Crys's meal of brazed lamb and sautéed carrots in butter, rolled in a cylinder of simple wood with " Archmage Skychaser, Greymere Tower, Theramore Island " inked upon the exterior in thick, blocky letters. Another letter from Daghmor.

Seating himself while tugging the tunic of next day's uniform past his elbow Crys removed the silver lid covering his meal and armed his left hand with the fork while his right sought out the correspondence. Tepid carrots disappeared one after another into his mouth while the wax seal was breached and the parchment within fished out with two slender elven fingers. Pausing in his dining long enough to unfurl the letter and lay it face down upon the small table his meal sat on to counter-act the tight curl he renewed his assault, a knife entering the fray to tear at the herb-crusted lamb cooked to perfection.

The elf ate quickly but not so fast as not to relish the tender, sweet meal that had been prepared for him. Dagh very rarely wrote him, something that Crys hadn't exactly encouraged over the past year, but when a letter suddenly showed up at his residence in the dwarven rogue's thick print the warmage made sure to respond in kind. Last morsel of food already on its way down to his satisfactorily filled stomach he placed the tray and utensils to the side, covering the remnants haphazardly with the polished metal dome it came with. The letter was flipped right-side up and a slight twinge of regret rippled through the elf's bright mood. _Barely a paragraph_ he thought, but then, Daghmor wasn't exactly a scholar, likely penning these letters before sleep over-took him and before his fellow dwarves began to question who he was writing to.

_Crys,_

_Just dropping a line or two to let you know I'm still out here busting my hump day in and day out uncovering things I don't think I'll ever truly understand. Ah nether, it's still a miracle that General Twinbraid even allowed me into Bael'Dun in the first place so I guess I shouldn't complain. It ain't Ironforge, not by a long-shot, but at least I can fall asleep in a real bed here and not worry about waking up with a knife at my throat. Heh, the way I've been fleecing these archeologists at games of bones that may happen yet! Glad to hear you've kept with the training and that at least one of us has a chance to see their home again soon. I wish you a fool's own luck in your efforts. _

_Tipping a pint in your honor, _

_D_

Short and to the point, just like the dwarves themselves. Daghmor had, months before, became dissatisfied with his life as a caravan guard and decided to settle down in the only other place on Kalimdor that would welcome him (albeit guardedly). Bael'Dun was a sizable dwarven fortress set in the west face of a range of mountains that skirted the sea. It had been constructed when prospectors discovered a large set of titan ruins nearby and, ever eager to discover their true heritage, began to excavate. This decision tread upon a few toes, most notably of the nearby tribes of quillboar and centaur, as well as the meddlesome tauren, each individually trying to oust the dwarves from their mountain stronghold. Crys doubted that even all three working together, as unlikely an alliance as could be imagined, could tear the stubborn race from what they sought so hard to find.

The elf was glad that Daghmor had at last found some fellow dwarves that he could eat, drink and gamble with, no doubt assuaging the emptiness he felt from leaving his kin so far behind first by his own hasty oath and then the attack of the Scourge on Lordaeron. At the end of his fifty winters away from the dwarven capital he would be able to return, embraced as a brother once again by his clan, but until then Bael'Dun would have to act as a substitute. Crys carefully re-rolled the letter and returned it to the cylinder it was sent with. He would have to pen a response within the next few days, but tonight he wanted to focus on his sketches.

Legs protesting his departing of the comfortable chair Crys limped over and settled himself on a wooden stool, quickly gathering pieces of parchment and sticks of charcoal before him. His eyes swept over what he had done on previous nights, pleased that his skill was clearly improving. Sketches of Jaina, Daghmor, Sarah, Stonesmite, even some of his fellow trainees all stared back at him with flat, sooty gazes, his goal in each to really capture the features that made them unique. He had given up on trying to draw an image of his sister, it had grown too frustrating and pointless to continue. It would aid his search for her immensely but it seemed he would have to rely on her recognizing him should the two meet.

Bending his mind and fingers to the task a rough collection of shapes and curves eventually began to form into the face of the night elf assassin whom Crys had slain on the battlements nearly a year ago, the one who also seemed to be working towards a greater goal, only to have it cut short by battling with the wrong person. It could have just as easily been his path which was cut short that night, his sister always wondering what had happened to her brother, not knowing he lay buried under foreign soil, slain by one of the Quel'dorei's ancient cousins. Crys shook his head to clear away those dark thoughts. He had entertained them far too often in the past and they held nothing of merit for him then or now.

The woman's strong, angular face took form, mouth open in a mocking laugh, the wizard frequently smudging the lines to soften them and add shadows. Short, silver-white hair he outlined in black and left, tossed as if by a crosswind. It was the look she had given him when he had asked her a question, her high-pitched, tinkling laughter at odds with her deadly serious words. The memory of that night, of that moment, when she made him feel as if he were nothing more than an insect in her path to be crushed came flooding back as the elven warmage finished her long, delicate ears. Even though he was completely alone, Crys suppressed a shudder. His plan had worked. He had captured her likeness well enough that it evoked an emotional response from himself, something he was unable to do weeks before with any sketch.

More sketches followed, quickly filling out the rest of the parchment, those of Ambassador Clearwater, murdered by the same assassin Crys battled; Sharleste, his student and lover, then the Sentinels who had glared at the wizard so spitefully and he later found butchered on the estate's lawn. Tightness settled into his lower back and shoulders, sleep pushing down upon the elf's eyelashes gently but firmly. The now small piece of charcoal was ejected from between blackened fingers and a titanic stretch and yawn overtook the warmage. That was enough for tonight. Cleaning his hands off on a dampened cloth, spotted from previous such uses Crys extinguished the candles and lamps in the room with but a sweep of his hand, leaving him in comforting gloom. The wooden door to his bedchamber squealed slightly as it open and shut. Moments and some creaks of a wooden bed frame later Crys'annadath was sound asleep.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Crys'annadath drew in deep, regular breaths as he ran, the morning air cool enough to keep the humidity from smothering the island city, cool enough for the labor of the morning run to bring welcome warmth to the surface of his skin. No longer did parts of him jostle freely with each impact of his foot upon the ground, did it feel he was carrying water sacks beneath his skin. It was glorious. Toned muscle shivered with each stride instead, barely resigistering each pace, his lungs operating with the efficient gusts of well-tended bellows. It appeared as if the elf was running alone this morning, the truth of the matter, however, was that the other recruits were far enough behind that even Crys's sharp ears had trouble hearing the leather soles of their boots thumping against the soil. Humans just couldn't keep up with his light frame, long legs and running techique perfected centuries before any of their grandparents were brought screaming into this world. It was the sort of stride the rangers of Silvermoon adopted as they ate the miles patrolling their forests, barely disturbing the undergrowth as they strode. Some of them had tried to keep up, burning up too much energy all at once before being forced to drop back, often clutching their abdomens as cramps developed. The elf allowed himself a slight smile, thinking about those days nearly two months ago where he always lagged behind, sweating profusely and gasping for breath like a landed fish.

Still smirking and relishing a body that no longer felt like it was trying to drag him to the ground the warmage took the time to run a couple of wide circles in an open lawn before continuing on with the normal route, the breathing and footfalls of his fellow recruits growing more distinct after his detour. Ahead, the sergeant waited, pacing slowly in front of the mess hall, looking up to the clock tower as he marked the time they were taking to complete the run. They had not been forced to wear the sand-filled packs for over a week, each recruit now in suitable enough shape that they could the sergeant's ever-shrinking deadlines with a comfortable margin to spare. A dour look over-came the stout man's face as he once again spied Crys well ahead of the others, shaking his head and likely cursing under his breath as the elven wizard came to a halt, running on the spot while they waited for the others. The human looked to the sacks of sand, as if contemplating punishing Crys for some imagined infraction if only to wipe the self-satisfied look upon his face off. Before long the others arrived, winded but not overly so, each of them having grown accustomed to the exertion demanded of their bodies on a daily basis. Crys stopped marking time when the last foot came to rest, controlling his breathing and calming his heart while waiting for the dismissal to break their fast. The sergeant stalked along the line, eyes scouring each of them for anything he didn't like, but they had become quite proficient at keeping him happy and avoiding additional chores. With a silent toss of his nearly bald head the recruits filed into the long building, Crys taking up a position at the back of the line.

The elf sat apart from the others, had he always had, eating the simple faire of roast ham, thick slices of toasted bread and blended eggs in silence. The food was filling, if a little heavy for his constitution, though years of living with humans and eating their food had given him a larger tolerance than most elves would have. His fellow recruits chatted comfortably with each other, having formed partnerships, alliances and hatreds alternatively amongst their future fellow guardsmen. Crys had thought it would be interesting to try and study and predict whom would pair up with whom, but he quickly grew tired of the petty favor-mongering and gossip. It didn't really matter, he figured, since if everything went really well he would likely never see them again...or if things went very poorly. Even with these sobering thoughts washing down upon the fire of his growing anticipation he felt a confidence in himself and his objective he had never guessed himself capable. Just look what he had managed to accomplish in such a short time. He was in as good physical condition as he had been in his prime, nay, _ever_, and with a healthy body his mind had sharpened as well, his spells springing more readily to his mind, even the ones that after years of neglect he could barely remember how to channel. The magical addiction still haunted him daily, needling him with its icy fingers, but as with his breathing, heart rate and abstinence from alcohol he could control the effect it had upon his physiology. His body and mind were finely crafted tools now, as they had been what seemed a lifetime ago. He would pass this test the ruling council had given him, be deemed worthy of traveling across the ocean to the eastern kingdoms, and after accomplishing whatever task they wished of him, would make his way north at best speed. Quel'thalas, whatever remained of it, awaited him.

Near the end of the day as the sun was dipping below the west wall the recruits were once again training in armed combat, this time wielding blunted metal blades instead of the wooden ones, their skill sufficient by now that they could wield the heavier, more dangerous weapons without fear of anything more serious than a bruise or shallow cut. The human long sword was heavy and cumbersome in Crys's grip, but the principle of using it was the same as lighter elven blades, the steel ringing against hasty parries and wooden shields as it darted this way and that, seeking unprotected flesh. He had cast aside the shield days ago, instead relying solely on the lone blade for his defense, which he used with enviable skill. He ducked, spun and stabbed, using his whole body to baffle and confuse his opponents, creating opportunities where he could finally land a telling blow. He wasn't untouchable, of course, he never had been, but in two-thirds of the sparring matches it was he who struck the lethal blow.

Something unusual caught Crys's attention out of the corner of his eye, a uniformed courier approaching the training grounds, scroll in hand. The man began to speak to the sergeant, then both their gazes moving to land upon the elven wizard. Crys'annadath almost missed parrying what would have been a painful strike such was his focus upon the meeting between the two humans at his periphery. The sergeant opened the scroll and began to read slowly, perhaps trying to make sure he understood its message correctly, or perhaps reading was not his strong point. In either case his reaction was the same; grudging compliance and sharp whistle and a beckoning gesture towards the elf confirmed his own hypothesis that the missive involved him in some way. With a twirling of his blade Crys released it into the air and began to stride towards the pair, his sword falling point down into the soil and wavering there.

" This arrived for you, " the sergeant said simply, holding the scroll out like it were something that offended him. Crys took the scroll lightly and unfurled it, eyes picking up on the neat script easily.

_To the elf Crys'annadath Skychaser and his immediate superior, _

_The wizard Skychaser is hereby relieved of his current duties and is to report to the north gate by the chiming of the bells for the second watch tomorrow morning for a special assignment. He is to bring accruements for battle and make any other preparations necessary for an extended leave from Theramore. Once this missive is read and understood by all parties concerned it is to be destroyed as soon as possible. _

Crys read over it carefully one more time to be sure there wasn't anything he had read simply because he had wanted it to be there, but the missive was quite clear. He was done with this training, obviously there were agents noting his progress and decided that he could be better used elsewhere rather than wasting his talents on the last few days before he shipped off to Azeroth. The elf couldn't keep the slight smile off of his face. It was if the last almost two months had been a test, and this letter represented his passing grade. Crys passed the scroll back to the sergeant, who stuffed it hastily beneath his belt, still regarding the elf dourly.

" You will make sure the letter is destroyed properly, " the page said more as a statement than a question before leaving the human and elf alone on the edge of the practice field.

" I guess this is good bye, " Crys finally commented, his tone neutral and matter-of-fact.

" And good riddance. You're still an elf and still not worth my time, at least now you won't be useless on top of that. Get out of my sight, " the sergeant snorted dismissively, turning away from him to bellow at the remaining recruits. The words stung Crys, but not nearly as bad as they might have had he not become accustomed to the burly man's insults. The warmage turned his back on the training grounds and never looked back, the path to his destiny was no longer linked with the small-minded prejudice of those behind him.

Crys entered his apartment atop Greymere Tower seized with and almost frantic energy, unlike so many days over the past where he could barely place one foot before the other as he trudged up the long, winding flight of stairs. While it was true he wasn't exactly treading upon the planks of the ship which would take him across the ocean, he knew that day was not far off, and he could handle whatever it was that the ruling council had in store for him. It was a vote of confidence in his prowess, one that all but guaranteed his passage aboard the ships headed to Azeroth. His evening meal had just arrived, still piping hot beneath its protective metal dome and the now unnecessary uniform for tomorrow folded neatly by the door. Striding over to the platter he lifted the top and let the steam wash over his face, carrying with it the scent of broiled rockscale cod filet and a side of potato fritters sprinkled with fried sweet onions. Replacing the lid Crys'annadath, ensuring the door was properly locked, stripped down and rid himself of the uniform befouled with sweat and dirt before stepping into the prepared bath.

The water was still warm enough it needed no magical heating and Crys washed quickly, pine-scented soap ridding himself of the dust and grime of the training grounds for the last time. Finishing, the elf paused before letting his gaze fall upon his reflection in the full length mirror beside the door. A grin parting his lips smiled back at him as this time there was nothing he wanted to hide from his own eyes, nothing that filled him with shame and self-loathing. This was how he had envisioned himself all those weeks ago, and where all his sacrifice, back-breaking labor and sheer willpower had gotten him. He swung his arms about slowly, watching the play of muscles beneath the glistening skin of his shoulders and chest, something he was unable to do the month previous. Crys had never been particularly vain in his youth, physical beauty well beyond the human norm just meant a higher standard amongst the Quel'dorei, and while he had never been striking compared to others, he hadn't been starved for female company either. Shaking his head at his juvenile posturing he toweled himself off and dressed in a grey woolen robe and padded sandals, still unable to completely smother the smile on his lips.

Plopping himself down in the green leather chair he usually occupied Crys turned his senses to the meal while his giving his thoughts free reign as he ate. He still had no idea what the assignment was, if he would be undertaking it alone or how many he would have to work and likely fight beside. Theramore was in a state of constant wariness, isolated and surrounded by ocean, constantly fighting against the native creatures of Dustwallow to maintain their trade route with places like Bael Modan, Ratchet and the sparse trade with Horde caravans and settlements. He could be doing anything from slaying black Dragonkin to setting fire to some of the Southsea Freebooter ships that endlessly prowled the waters along the coast looking for merchant ships to plunder. In either case he would be prepared, fit, and well-armed magically, just as he had in his fights against the Scourge before the fall of Dalaran. He remembered the almost manic zeal back in those desperate days, beyond the relative safety of Dalaran's walls, living in a tiny one-person tent, eating the same meals day-after-day, leading good men and women in flanking and harassing attacks against the Scourge's support elements. He had watched those same good men and women fall and die in many horrible ways, only to rise up again seconds later and raise their stained weapons against their former comrades as the necromancers worked their foul enchantments.

It was difficult, taking the fight to them on their own ground, for where ever the Scourge and its sepulchral buildings went the Blight flowed, turning green healthy vegetation dead and grey. The cracked, tainted ground held residual dark energies that healed the undead defenders, gouges in their withered flesh slowly mending the moment they were dealt. They were lucky if they inflicted enough damage to even call the raid a success, often retreating with the dead bodies of former comrades shuffling after them, clawing the air hungrily and the screams of the other deathless horrors ringing in their ears. Back they went to the camp, exhausted, shaken, wept for fellow soldiers who had fallen, ate their rations, and went to sleep in their tiny tents, knowing the orders to go out and do it again would be waiting for them when they woke. Each time they wondered if they would come back from those dangerous missions...or if they died, if they would remain so. Fighting flesh-and-blood enemies was horrible enough, but at least you knew the enemy bled, felt fear and pain, needed to rest and eat like you did. The Scourge was no such enemy. Day or night, on sunny days or in downpours the undead reacted and fought with the same alertness and ferocity. Crys had tried to push himself to be like the Scourge, to never rest or give a moment of pause in his destruction of their troops, _anything_ to stem the tide battering against Dalaran's walls, his mind always divided between his duty there and what might have happened in Quel'thalas. There had been no word from the elven kingdom for weeks and the fact that the Scourge had changed its target from Quel'thalas to Dalaran meant they had either been successfully rebuked, or they had taken what they needed and left the proud country in ruin and decay.

In the end it was his determination that forced him from the fighting altogether, Crys'annadath leading a hastily thrown together raid against a target they had little information about. The commander had assured them it was a Scourge outpost that had recently had almost all of its forces pushed to the front, leaving it ripe for attacking. What the human commander had failed to mention, however, was that the scouting report was a week old. Confident that the information was accurate and hungering for a telling blow against the invading undead Crys did only a brief scan with his Sorcerous Sight of the cluster of charnel houses and profane temples before leading the assault. What he had failed to notice however, was the horde of ghouls harvesting lumber half a mile away. Within minutes of their attack a wave of ravening ghouls washed over them like a tide of bony claws and snapping teeth, dragging down soldiers and tearing them apart under a mass of decaying bodies. Crys'annadath himself nearly fell under the vicious counter-attack, and would have had a fellow mage not managed to teleport what few warriors remained back to the safety of the camp.

The disastrous raid proved to be the twig the broke the mule's back. The camp no longer had the forces to make any sorties against the Scourge and was forced to pack up and join with a refugee outpost along the shores of Lordamere Lake. There Crys limped about uselessly as the war went along without him, his mind having little to do other than feed upon his guilt for failing to take proper precautions before the raid and wondering what had become of Silvermoon, Quel'thalas, and his family. He had watched aghast as the Scourge breached Dalaran's defenses and swarmed over the magus within, watched as the violet-roofed spires and towers containing thousands of years of arcane knowledge crumbled and fell to rubble.

It was probably the darkest time of his life, that day following the destruction of Dalaran. He had failed in his duty to protect the city-state and had no word from or way of reaching Silvermoon. Eventually a tide of ragged survivors dodging Scourge patrols passed by and spoke of ships leaving the doomed continent and traveling west. Seeing elves amongst the survivors Crys followed along, hoping that his family had somehow escaped the destruction he learned about from the refugees. He heard tales of vast acres of verdant forest turned as grey and dead as the undead who assaulted them, told of Sylvanas Windrunner's stubborn resistance and ultimate failure to protect the precious Sunwell just as the first pangs of what would become the magical addiction stabbed at his gut. He remembered the haunted, grim faces of his fellow elves and wished for all he was worth that he could have been there, even if it would have done nothing. It was then, only a day's journey from the coast when they met up with another group of survivors in a tiny abandoned village that he would find his sister.

They had embraced and wept bitterly, a hundred questions burning on his lips but afraid to ask lest the truth be far worse than he had imagined. It was that night she had told him what she had seen and done, what had happened as they undead rampaged freely through the residential areas, of screams and flames soaring up into the skies. She had spoken with a group of elves who had heard of Prince Kael'thas surviving the attack and rallying his people to try and take back what remained of their home. She asked Crys to come with her, and focus the hurt and pain he felt into righteous mage fire and burn away the corruption that had seized control of his beloved homeland.

Crys paused there in his recollection, raking his teeth over the iron tines of his fork as he downed the last morsel of his meal. Even with all this vivid pain and emotion being brought to the fore he couldn't remember her name or her face. Of course he couldn't, why should this time be any different from the countless other times he had relived those horrible last days on Lordaeron? The warmage blinked rapidly and belated realized warm tears streamed down his cheeks. Setting his fork down roughly he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and suppressed a sob, remaining that way for long moments more, his breathing grown heavy with grief. Finally, sniffling and dragging his fingers along his cheeks Crys managed to regain control of his emotions and push them back down to a manageable level. He would not succumb to that which had ruled him for the past two years, not now when he was so close to being able to return to what remained of his old life. He would find her, somehow, and they would work something out between them. He had to believe that he would, or all that he had accomplished thus far would be for naught.

Pushing aside the table that had held what he belated realized was an excellent meal Crys rose to his feet, feeling the customary stiffness in his joints after a hard day's training keenly. Moving over the massive oak table the warmage perched himself atop the wooden stool he had used for the past weeks when he practiced his sketching. Another smile crossed his angular face as he leafed through his most recent works, as pleased with his progress here as he had been by his physique in the mirror. Detailed, instantly recognizable faces looked back at him from the pages, their features refined and lovingly captured upon the vellum. His parents, Ranger Brightcrown, instructors from Falthrien Academy, even that troll he had brutally killed were present and portrayed as best he could remember them along with those faces from his present life. Recently he had begun to use his Sorcerous Sight to study a random guard or citizen in Theramore for several long moments before sketching his or her face out upon the paper from memory alone. It strengthened his grasp of details and his speed at drawing, both things he had needed in the past acting as a magical scout for Dalaran commanders. Crys had little doubt that such skills would serve him well in the weeks to come.

The elf's smile became a little embarrassed as he flipped past a few portaits of Jaina Proudmoore that would perhaps be a little scandalous should anyone but Crys set his gaze upon them. Since building himself back up after years of self-pity and drunkenness Crys found himself wondering if he could catch the arch-wizardess' eye, having shown that he was capable of beating the odds and once again had a strong sense of purpose. The elven wizard was one of the most experienced magic-users left on Theramore, with a long history of fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with other troops against all sorts of foes. His records within the Dalaran army were long and marked with numerous successes brought about by prudent application of his magical might and was considered, prior to the city's fall, one of the primary liaisons between the Kirin Tor and distant Silvermoon. She had likely had this in mind when a year ago she chose him to head the investigations into the mysterious murders happening on the island nation, and, even after slipping back into a rum-induced coma, she thought to give him yet another chance to redeem himself with this trip overseas. _Perhaps she was just working with the limited resources what she had_, came the sobering thought, and if there were others to take his place she wouldn't have spared him a second thought, letting him drink himself into oblivion.

A deep sigh slipped through the elf's nostrils as the coy images of Jaina slipped past his eyes. What could he do to woo a woman such as her anyways? Even if he had somehow managed to build a rapport with the distant governess when would they have time for one another? She was perpetually busy with running the city-state and he was about to head across the ocean, possibly never to return. These were the thoughts of a love-struck boy, not the sensible wizard he was supposed to be, that he needed to be. Crys doubted that he would ever see her equal, though, both in flaxen-haired beauty or in her iron will and determination to carry on regardless of what fate threw her way. She had experienced the destruction of an entire continent, the turning of a childhood friend and ally into a remorseless monster, condemned her own father to death because she didn't believe what he was doing was right and stood her ground against Archimonde himself with the fate of the world hanging in the balance. Crys'annadath felt blessed to even have shared the same room as her, spoken to her directly. Romance? Impossible.

Turning his mind to more productive matters he gathered sheaves of fresh vellum before him and lined up sticks of charcoal to be used. Sketching lightly as he worked the basic shape of two figures began to take focus, facing one another, tightly embraced. Elegant, draping clothes of the Quel'dorei variety covered their forms, trimmed with intertwining knot work that Crys painstakingly reproduced from memory of popular styles. The one had longer hair than the other, the only part of that same figure's head that was visible to the viewer of the picture, resting upon the other's left shoulder. Hands tightly gripped one another's backs as they enjoyed the simple contact of the embrace, yet if they were lovers or kin was not immediately apparent. One was armed, a sword at his hip, and his clothing began smudged and torn as the elf continued to work, as if he had endured much to get to the other figure's arms. The one he embraced was more slender, with a distinctly female curve to her back and arms. Crys'annadath felt the strain of the past day beginning to cloud his eyes and cramp his muscles, but he pressed on.

Finally the elven wizard's own face appeared on the male figure, his eyes closed in surrender to emotion, the faintest trace of a tear flowing out from under his lashes. Eyes drooping, his hand sketched out the bare outlines of majestic, soaring towers and buildings around the two. All of his sketching, his sacrifice, his training, it would all lead up to that moment. That one pure moment where all of the world would slip from his mind as he once again embraced his sister, would hear her voice call his name, and at long last he would be able to fill the void not only left in his mind, but in his heart with the sight of her face. Swaying upon his stool in an effort to keep himself upright the elf gently blew away errant bits of charcoal and gazed sleepily at what he had accomplished in a few hours. Carefully setting the picture aside the warmage slipped from his wooden seat and shuffled over to his bedroom, hoping his dreams would be of her.

Crys'annadath's leather boots clomped in a swift, regular cadence upon the cobblestone street as he walked, the majority of his attention upon ripping hunks of steaming sourdough bread and pushing them into his mouth. Occasionally his left hand would trace down to the water skin slung around his shoulders for a refreshingly cool sip of water he had conjured minutes before. Theramore was just waking up, the sun a red and orange smear on the eastern horizon barely visible over the ramparts of the fortress city, the elven wizard having purchased the loaf just minutes after it left the stone oven it was baked in. Conjured bread had nothing on the real thing as far as taste, texture and tantalizing warmth that came from that which was freshly baked. Today was the day, and to be perfectly frank with himself the elf was glad for it. The sooner he began this assignment, the sooner he could be done with it and prepare for his journey across the sea.

A brown leather cloak trailed behind the warmage, its borders decorated with a leaf pattern burned carefully burned into the prepared hide, the hood down for now but was voluminous enough to accommodate the long, tapering ears of elves such as him. The hem of the long tunic of thick green silk he wore stopped just above his knees and was split up the front and back to just below the waist, every hem and cuff trimmed with a broad band of supple leather cut to look like leafy vines weaving their way inwards. The acorn-shaped buttons up the front and along the cuffs were made of steel overlaid with unpolished copper, as was the broach pinning the cloak in place, resembling a cluster of oak leaves. From the leather belt fastened around the elven wizard's trim waist hung a leather scabbard, and in that scabbard a finely wrought yet still insufferably human long sword rested, the twisted wire grip terminating in golden spheres on the pommel and ends of the hilt. Two leather pouches also hung off Crys's belt, one with three stiff leather compartments for holding glass tubes filled with potions, the other slightly larger with a compact book filled with arcane notations inside. A leather-covered metal scroll case about a foot-and-a-half long sat strapped to the back of the belt, filled with rolls of blank vellum and a bundle of charcoal sticks for sketching. Lastly, he wore snug fitting leggings of finely-stitched brown doeskin over his legs, covering what little skin would otherwise show between the curled tops of the boots and the hem of his tunic.

Rounding a final street corner the north gate revealed itself to the warmage, as well as two figures standing on the cobbles otherwise empty of traffic. One was dressed in a flowing robe of black and gold, bejeweled rings winking in the dim morning light upon his fingers, hair black as raven's feathers pulled back into a short ponytail, much like Crys's currently was. The other was nearly a head taller, roughly the elf's height, and clad in imposing silver plate armor trimmed with braided gold, helm with its blue plume tucked in the crook of his arm, the other holding a shield while he chatted with the robed man. A few paces closer and the cleanly-cut sandy-blonde on the armored man's head confirmed that this was Edward Strongshield, one of the very few Knight of the Silver Hand left alive and a man who, a year ago, had brought the elf back from the dead.

Tossing aside the rest of his loaf for the ever-present gulls to find and tear into Crys swallowed the last morsel in his mouth and dusted off his hands. It wasn't long before the peripheral vision of the pair caught sight of the elven wizard's direct stride towards them and they ceased their conversation, turning themselves toward the new arrival.

" Good morrow and well met, Magus Skychaser. It's been quite awhile since we last shared words. I had heard the last year had been rough on you, though I am glad to see you in good health, " the paladin called to him as the elf closed the distance, a polite smile upturning the corners of the armored man's mouth.

" And in even better company, Sir Strongshield, " Crys'annadath replied crisply with a nod of his head in greeting to them both, " though I don't believe I know the gentleman you are standing with, " he finished as he came to a halt several paces away from the pair.

The raven-haired man bowed his head slightly to the warmage before he spoke, his words quiet yet compelling.

" Archmagus Tervosh, special aide to the Governess and your humble servant. "

Crys was unable to fully keep the surprise from his face as he heard the other's introduction. Archmage Tervosh was an instrumental part in the founding of Theramore and the many battles that Jaina Proudmoore had fought in since the Alliance's exile to Kalimdor, said to be only second to the governess herself in power and influence. Her majordomo, as it were. Crys had met the man several times over the course of his stay in Theramore and inwardly cursed himself for not having recognized his visage earlier. The drink really had wiped away years of his life.

Seeing the wizard's discomfort at realizing who he was Tervosh gave a reassuring smile and a sympathetic incline of his head.

" Do not trouble yourself with the past, Master Skychaser, I have heard the last few years have not been kind to you, something involving a banshee…? " the archmage trailed off, as if unsure if what he spoke were true or not. Crys merely gave a tight smile and a nod in response, knowing full well that Tervosh likely knew every minuscule detail about the murders the elf had investigated the previous year and what had happened to him then and since.

" So, what will Sir Strongshield and I be doing for Theramore this time? " Crys asked, quickly changing the subject.

" Sealed orders, to be opened when we reach our destination I'm afraid, " Edward responded, moving the battle-worn shield bearing his family crest aside to show the roll of parchment, sealed with Jaina's distinctive wax tucked under his broad belt.

" And our destination? " the elven wizard pressed, a small amount of unease creeping into his mind and tone.

" Desolace, to an outpost named Nijel's Point. Are you familiar with the place? " Tervosh replied this time.

Crys rocked back on his heels as his mind scrambled to assimilate the information he had been given. Desolace was a vast region of ash wastes and bleached kodo bones west of Mulgore, the grassland home of the Tauren race. Nijel's Point, however, was a complete mystery.

" That's…a week-and-a-half travel away through Horde-controlled territory. Far to the west, " the warmage responded slowly, realizing the implications.

" Correct, a hard and difficult ride if… " Tervosh began, but Crys quickly interrupted him.

" The ships to Azeroth leave in a week, how can I be expected to….? " he blurted out, throwing his arms wide in a display of incredulousness.

" If you would let me _finish_, " the archmage stated firmly, cutting off Crys's tirade.

"If you were riding, but I know the location well and will be teleporting the three of us there momentarily. We have not forgotten about the ships, good magus, please have more faith in us. "

The elf clamed up immediately, lips pressed into a firm line as he admonished himself for reacting so hastily.

" Now, I assume you had all that you will need for the mission ahead? " Tervosh asked Crys in his polite tone.

Crys'annadath nodded once.

" Very well then. Brace yourselves, " the arch-magus warned, though Crys was no stranger to the powerful magicks and he was sure Edward was not as well.

Chanting while sweeping his right arm out before him in a slow horizontal arc Tervosh intoned the spell, a vibrant rune-etched circle of power forming on the street around the trio. Spheres of the same brilliant blue light and arcane symbols appeared in the air above them as well, slowing rotating as a deep thrumming noise filled their ears. A few moments and words more and the fortress city around them disappeared in a flash of white light, and ground beneath them feeling as if it had suddenly been pulled out from under them. Crys swayed but kept his feet, more used to teleporting when he himself was in control of the incantation.

The smells of sea air were replaced with the odor of hot dust as the world gradually came back into focus for the three of them, the buildings that once surrounded them having vanished to be replaced with ruined, weather-eaten columns of white stone, hillocks of grey, sandy earth and faded green grass. Figures that quickly became armored footmen to their eyes walked to-and-fro across the ashen soil, stopping in their activities to regard the new arrivals with wariness.

Once the last vestiges the spell left him Crys swept his long-eared head around for an over-view of the immediate area, more than a little puzzled by the ruined structures present there. The puzzlement was rapidly replaced with understanding as he realized the outpost was situated among one of the many sites of ruined kaldorei cities, broken towers, columns and ramps betraying a grand style of architecture no longer widely practiced among their people these days. To Crys's right was a cliff face of moderate size, a large night elf building constructed of wood dominating it, purple-tiled roof worn and faded by the harsh sun and sweeping winds. Closer to the elf's front was another smaller wooden structure at roughly the same height, no doubt overlooking the plains below. Other than that, little else caught his attention structure-wise, though what was…..

Crys's hand suddenly went to his gut, pressing against it as his mind whirled. _Warmth, but from where?!_ Glorious mana rushed to fill the aching void in his belly, warming him like a cup of hot cider slipping down his throat after hours spent in the cold. Twisting his head around frantically for the source his wide eyes set themselves upon a stone structure behind him and to the left.  
_A moonwell!_

Tendrils of energy as blue as a summer's sky flowed upwards from the pool of condensed moonlight, casting a soothing cerulean light upon what few trees were able to grow around the wondrous construction. Without even thinking about it Crys turned towards the moonwell and took a step forward, hand moving from his belly to reach out like it were a rope to a drowning man. The gaze of several night elf warriors falling upon him snapped him back to reality, however, realizing he must look like a needy drunk reaching for his bottle yet again. The analogy was disgustingly apt. Curling his fingers into a fist Crys'annadath calmed himself, tearing his eyes from the cornerstone of kaldorei life and turning his back on the sight of that sublime energy radiating from the basin. Edward and Tervosh looked on, brows slightly wrinkled in concern at the elf's sudden, bizarre reaction.

" I'm…sorry, its presence took me by surprise. Please, lead on, " Crys explained distractedly, a slight, content smile on his face as for the first time in years he felt whole again. The elf didn't need to see or hear the night elves whispering behind his back to know that was exactly what they were doing, but right now he didn't care either.

" Yes, well though this is primarily a kaldorei outpost because of our mutual interests they have allowed a contingent of Theramore regulars to stay here in four month rotations as well. Desolace is a place ruled by marauding centaur and they welcomed the additional measure of security. As you can both see, however, there is slightly more troops here than a tiny outpost such as this can support for long periods of time, " Tervosh explained, gesturing before them.

The archmage spoke the truth, for there were hundreds of white tents set up in neat rows to their immediate left with just as many men milling about, sharpening swords, checking armor and the like. There too, further down the line were dozens of dwarves in their smaller brown tents, hands idly stroking beards as they talked in groups. It was quite the force, which in turn made Crys wonder what his part in all of it would be.

" You may now open your orders, Sir Strongshield, and once you have digested its contents, pass it on to Magus Skychaser, " Arch-mage Tervosh instructed. Edward, helm already upon his head, set his shield down to rest against his leg while he broke the seal with a swift motion of his gauntleted hand and unfurled the parchment. His eyes traced back and forth along the lines of script while the two wizards waited. A look of astonishment slowly crept over the paladin's face, his gaze switching several times from the page to Tervosh and back again. As absorbed as he was by what secrets the missive might contain Crys quickly spotted the lightly-armored scout running from somewhere beyond the elf's sight towards the camp, his face full of urgent concern.

Crys watched the breathless man's progress as he passed the three of them to stop before a female night elf, salute, and hastily deliver his report. The kaldorei warrior nodded several times and began to walk away from the scout, loudly issuing orders both in Darnassian and the common tongue, Crys understanding both.

" A large Horde force is heading directly towards us! Make yourselves ready for battle! Standard formation at the mouth of the slope! "

" Belay those orders! Stand down! " Edward suddenly roared, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot, which, judging by the number of eyes upon him, was a lot. Looking to Crys with a half-smile twisting his handle-bar mustache the paladin spoke, lifting up the scroll slightly to draw his attention to it, Tervosh beside him smirking at the words he knew would follow.

" Looks like the other half of our forces have arrived. "


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter

**Chapter 4**

It took a good portion of the morning for both the Horde and Alliance forces to finally grow accustomed enough to one another's presence for a proper assembly to be formed. There was a division as straight as an arrow's shaft between where the two factions sat, each muttering quietly amongst themselves and casting wary glances at one another. Seated upon a rickety wooden folding chair near the front of the Alliance troops Crys watched the whole exchange with a sort of bemused concern. What were Jaina and the Theramore council thinking linking up with the Horde for _any _mission when tensions were still so high between the old foes? How could the respective commanders expect the two to work in concert with any hope of success, and even if they did, would they still be able to meet Crys's timeline of a week? Pensive, he cast his gaze over to where Tervosh, Strongshield and several Horde leaders stood around a table brought down from the inn on the cliff above, speaking quietly between themselves, their speech instantly translated via a spell the archmage has cast over them all. At least some progress was being made there.

At last, as the sun neared its zenith the commanders of both forces lined up and faced outwards towards the restless soldiers. Somewhat surprisingly Edward Strongshield was the first to speak, the translating spell cast upon him making his words understood no matter the shape or color of the ear that heard them.

" Soldiers of the Alliance and the Horde, we have gathered here today under the auspice of peace to quell a threat which, if allowed to roam free, could very well crush our tenuous holdings in this land. We do this not only for our own current self-interests but to honor the blood shed by those who fought shoulder-to-shoulder at the foot of Mount Hyjal and the pact of peace forged by our two leaders. "

" None whom truly understand it would call the lingering animosity that exists between our peoples trivial, and I need not speak of the evils perpetrated by one side or another since Horde and Alliance first clashed all those years ago. We are not here to gloss over past failings and bloodshed. We are here to stand together despite them, and realize that in a land which is still very new to both of us there are greater, more immediate dangers to our survival than each other. "

The paladin Strongshield paused then as if to collect his thoughts, using the time to scan the two armies before him to see what effect, if any, his words were having. The men shifted restlessly, glancing about to their fellows but otherwise did not give any indication as to their mood. Seeing this as good as any sign to continue, Strongshield did so.

" The threat I speak of comes from the centaur tribes that inhabit this land, content for a time in raiding our holdings or the caravans of the goblins while they focused the brunt of their war parties on one another. For a time, this was good, and both of our holdings in this land grew slowly but steadily. As of a month ago, something unusual spurred the chain of events leading up to the current predicament. Rumors floated around that a centaur sought to reunite all of the clans under one banner by gaining the favor of the ghostly khans within their sacred cavern, Maraudon . "

" The Horde and Alliance both reacted to this rumor in the same way, yet separate from one another. This must not be allowed to happen, lest we be faced with a war we were both ill-equipped to fight, and as such, sent agents to kill the khans of two of the most powerful clans in the region; the Magram and the Gelkis. Had our two factions had more open lines of communication on this mutual threat we might have been able to foresee its consequences, but now is not the time to debate the merits of hindsight. The agents were successful, and with the two clans leaderless we had hoped that the clans would succumb to vicious in-fighting for months before a new khan was chosen. This was not to be. "

" Instead of responding as expected, a third clan moved in to mediate and smooth over the choosing of new leaders, that of the Maraudine, the watchers of Maraudon. Admittedly, all reports had suggested that the centaur, while united in their hatred of us outsiders, distrusted one another too much to form any solid pacts and generally kept their own council. We had mistaken them as simple and barbaric, when their society is admittedly more complex than that. Furthermore, the khan of the Maraudine, Hratha, has focused the attention of the centaur's ire on our respective holdings rather than each other, increasing the tension on what we had hoped to relieve. "

Strongshield took a deep breath before continuing, the dry wasteland air likely clutching at his throat like an enraged assailant.

" What we face now is an enemy united, one that grows more impatient for blood with each passing sunrise. We must deal with it swiftly, lest swiftly we are dealt with by it. Our collective efforts will go to destroying the source of that unification, to slaying Khan Hratha and in doing so ward off a war that will soon be upon us all. "

Rough murmurs rose from the assembled troops them, many a brow lined in concern as the nature and gravity of the threat was finally laid bare. The concept nagged Crys as well, once again fears of how long it would take a military operation of this size and scope could be organized and used to strike effectively at the heart of its target.

" This plan sounds much alike to the one that put you in this mess in the first place, " the elven warmage spoke, taking no pains to lower his voice, the first few ranks of soldiers fully within hearing range, their gazes turning from one another to Strongshield to answer the question they hadn't themselves voiced.

" We had considered that as well. As always I appreciate your honest candor," the paladin replied diplomatically to the elf, the tight smile upon his lips not shared by his eyes. Shifting his attention once again back to the gathered warhost he addressed them again, this time attempting to strike down the concerns that were mounting.

" I understand your fears, for they were my own when first I heard of the plan, but allow me to assuage your concern as best I can. Hratha is the lynchpin binding the uneasy clans together, clans that would have already turned on one another had he not intervened and took control. A sure, devastating strike against him may well fracture the clans for months, even years before another of his cunning rises from the ranks. While the concept of the assault may seem simple, the execution of it will not. Both Horde and Alliance have relentlessly scouted the Maraudine holdings for weaknesses and their numbers, information that has cost more than a few lives. The valley itself is a twisting maze of canyons and bluffs, and any army marching in could rapidly lose its way and be whittled down to a man by centaur archers. That is why we must strike swiftly and with surety. "

Crys was no more placated by the paladin's explanation than most of the troops appeared to be, but all held their tongues. It was all they were going to be given, and as soldiers, all they deserved to know. The rest was in the planning and the execution, and the trust that the blood shed and lives lost will not be in vain. The warmage did not fear these centaur, no matter how organized they seemed, but instead feared that they would delay him such that he would miss the ships headed to Azeroth. The thought painted his face with barely suppressed irritation as the commanders of both forces were introduced to one and all so that they may be recognized and deferred to as such by both factions.

On the Alliance side there were two captains, each commanding a company of footmen clad head-to-toe in the unremarkable yet sturdy plate mail of their ilk, shields bearing the crest of Theramore resting against their sides as they sat through the briefing, fidgeting under the warm sun and the company of Horde but paces away from them. Captain Fairfeather, draped in golden plate armor with a rich purple cloak over his shoulders looked at first like a court dandy who had been placed in a warrior's armor by mistake. But as Crys's eyes ran over the dents and scrapes in the metal, over the beautifully ornate yet battle-tested sword at his hip the elf knew that however foppish he may look, he was a man who had seen his share of battles and could be trusted to lead a company into the thick of battle. Still, the way he preened like a fussy bird over the peacock feather plume set into his helm, or picking at specks of dirt from his regal cloak drew snickers from the rough Horde warriors nearby. Fairfeather either did not hear them or chose not to.

By contrast Captain Harlowe was as plain and straight-forward as a soldier could be, looking as if he had worn his armor since birth and it had grown with him through the years. No decoration but the scoring of metal weapons marked his weapon and octagonal shield, and the battle axe hanging from a hook on his belt had more than a few chips along its curved striking surface. Thick and black like a brush used to clean chimneys were his hair and beard and his dark, scowling countenance made the elven wizard place the man's likely homeland as distant Stromgarde.

The third captain was a dwarf, which was fitting as he commanded a company of dwarven riflemen, judging by the irregular make-up and number of the company they were likely all Theramore could muster of those firearm experts, the rest having left to help defend Bael Modan while their fellows plumbed the secrets of the titan ruins. Captain Thunderbore stood proudly beside a rifle as long as he was tall like it were a trusted comrade-at-arms, deep-set eyes doubly shaded by his wide-brimmed hat and heavy brow so they seemed like tiny embers in a dying hearth. All about him his dwarven subordinates puffed on pipes or stroked their beards as they listened and talked quietly amongst themselves in their gruff native tongue, only truly at home amongst their own kind. Thunderbore's curly red beard and hair were tied off with leather strips to keep them clear of his powder horn and ammo pouch, his sun-browned skin wrinkled like an old leather map. His leather armor was studded with dull grey iron and looked in good repair. Crys gave a moment to wonder how many foes had managed to approach close enough to raise a weapon against the seasoned dwarf.

Of the Horde, there was Krosh Axehand, warlord by title and leader of the contingent sent from Shadowprey to work with the Alliance against the centaur. Crys could only guess the warrior's list of accomplishments, silently spoken to all by the many scars on both black plate armor and flesh. Two battle axes of exquisite craftsmanship hung in loops from his hips, gleaming a fiery red in the sunlight, and whenever the orc seem to be thinking deeply on some subject he lightly stroked his fingers along the side of the cutting edge. It seemed an aggressive gesture, but the warmage surmised it was no more antagonistic than a man stroking his beard while pondering a question, just an orcish take on it.

Had Crys not heard the title that belonged to Krosh, he would have guessed that the silent, brooding tauren called Mune Greysky was their leader. While speaking little the bull man had a commanding presence, like a storm approaching a port city, his liquid black eyes measuring every thing and every one they beheld carefully. He was a calming presence on many of the Horde as well, for one smoldering, enigmatic glance from him and raised voices quieted, shoulders shifted to a more relaxed position and hands left weapon handles. His armor was treated and shaped kodo hide strapped over his slate grey fur, and his weapon a great many-bladed halberd resting on one broad shoulder, littered with runes and markings no doubt of great significance to his people.

Few among the Horde delegation drew as many dark looks from the Alliance troops as the Darkspear witch doctor Zul'jol Blackhex. Blue skin liberally tattooed with black ink depictions of skulls, bones and writhing spirits he walked with a twisted staff in his hand, one capped with a bleached, very human skull inscribed with red lettering and diagrams. Finger bones dangled from his braided and coiled hair, long ears, and neck, creating a hollow, macabre clinking noise with every movement. Anger and bile rose in Crys's throat as he saw a few shriveled ears amongst the troll's trophies, some far too large to be anything but elven in origin. His hands itched to unleash a terrible maelstrom of fire upon the hunched Darkspear but Crys'annadath held his peace, just barely. The troll's thick accent and wild laugh made him impossible to ignore though, and did little to improve the elven wizard's mood.

Her face obscured by the toothy maw of a slain frost wolf whose pelt adorned her head and back, the only female with the Horde force was Calga Spiritblade. At first Crys had assumed she was merely a young male, perhaps sent to learn the art of war first hand while still in training, but the armor she wore, trimmed and decorated with some sort of silvery-blue ink, revealed enough of the body underneath for the elf to make a drastic change of opinion regarding her gender. Neither chatty like the witch doctor nor morose like the tauren her words were carefully chosen and delivered with precise timing to steer the conversation in a certain direction. Crys saw Tervosh eyeing her carefully, like one would watch a rival player at a card game who had been winning all night. By contrast, she seemed to give Tervosh nothing more than an occasional sideways glance. A shaman she was then, one who had been told at great length about the dangers of the 'demon magics' and those who wielded it.

The remaining captains were distinguished warriors all, though they kept silent through most of the negotiations, either too overwhelmed or too abrasive to add anything to this momentous joint effort. The Horde had likely been told that the honor of their warchief rode with their actions and words, and those who could not speak constructively were to not speak at all. Blood Guard Redpaw lurked at the edge of the Horde commanders, burly arms crossed his bare chest, clad only in crudely-stitched furs with a wolf cowl cloak like Calga bore over his broad face. He seemed at first to bear no weapons, but Crys managed to notice when Redpaw shifted his arms around once to stretch them the nails on his fingers were unusually long and sharp-looking, blackened like cold-forged iron. He was almost as much a beast as the wolf he rode. Small wonder he had little to add to the talk of stratagems and tactics. His command was that of some twenty orc raiders, all mounted upon great shaggy dire wolves whose tongues lolled out in the badlands heat.

Deepwound was a Blood Guard by rank as well, the streaks of grey that showed in the thick, coarse braid that trailed down his back spoke of an orc who had managed to live the life of a warrior to the peak of an orc's years and beyond. It was clear the presence of the Alliance troubled him, but he kept his deeply lined face resolutely neutral, even if the tightness of his stance and the drumming fingers on the haft of his great axe spoke a different tale. A company of restless orc warriors, sharing their leader's disdain, muttered quietly amongst themselves.

The last to be introduced was another troll, nearly as tall as a tauren even with the hunched back. His musculature was sparse and wiry beneath skin the color of lapis lazuli, while eyes as bright orange as his shock of hair were reduced to mere slivers by lids narrowed in distaste. The bright plumage of some exotic birds hung from the beaded bands around his wrists, biceps, thighs and ankles, making him look something like a nearly plucked gangly bird. A crown of the same feathers swept back from the troll's low forehead , exaggerating his already impressive height. His weapon was a huge spear tipped with an obsidian blade the size of a short sword, while a quiver of fletched javelins was slung over his right shoulder, ready to draw and throw. Zan'wu Speartusk's troops were spear-throwers, adding their mighty throwing arms to the cause and providing ranged support.

Introductions now aside Edward took the fore once again, allowing the assembled troops to break rank for half of an hour to stretch their legs and quench their dust-dry throats with the water being doled out around Nijel Point's deep well by a pair of kaldorei who worked at the inn. Crys couldn't help but notice as soon as the two groups were allowed to move freely they put some space between them and the other faction, backs turned and wary glances frequently cast over shoulders. This mission was going to take quite a bit of time and patience, two things Crys himself was running out of like grey Desolace sand trickling through his fingers.

The elven warmage took the break as a chance to stretch his legs and wander about alone, troubled and disgruntled. He sipped the tepid water he had conjured into his water skin, swishing it about and spitting it out onto the parched grey soil in a glistening stream, the liquid surviving the span of three heartbeats before vanishing completely from sight into the sandy soil. What a misbegotten place all his hard work and sacrifice had brought him, forcing him to be partner with orcs, most of whom had likely slain their fair share of elves in the invasion of Quel'thalas during the second war. Knowing that the orcish race and his own shared a history of addiction to demonic energies which they had to struggle against daily seemed only to exacerbate the wizard's foul temper, his footsteps carrying him to the edge of a cliff, his view of the cracked mud plains below flanked by two weather-blunted columns of natural sandstone.

Now that his mouth was clear of the gritty dust the next swallow of water was allowed to trickle languidly down his throat, satisfying only the basest sense of refreshment. The gurgle of water from a third swig wasn't loud enough to cover the sound of approaching footfalls behind him, the sort of shuffling crunch even the most careful strider made when walking across earth that was this dehydrated. Crys half turned both torso and head to see the approach of Tervosh, his hands clasped loosely behind his back and head tilted down, as if deep in thought, or perhaps shading his face from the intense sunlight.

The archmage took a position next to the quel'dorei, arms swinging around to cross his chest, head rising up to fix the elf with a piercing stare, head cocked to the side as if a new angle might shed some light onto the problem the eyes were seeing. Jaina Proudmoore's personal envoy pressed his lips into a firm line, the fine muscles around his dark eyes pinching inwards to narrow them. It was a look of irritation and rebuke, one that rankled Crys'annadath's already ill humor.

" Am I not allowed to speak my mind…? " the elf began with a wide toss of his arms, guessing as to what Tervosh was here to admonish him about. He was interrupted by an index finger raised up between the two like a brandished sword, demanding silence.

" Neither Sir Strongshield nor I appreciate attempts to undercut our authority, especially before emissaries of the Horde or our own troops, " Tervosh hissed, his words clipped and cold. " Did you not think that this mission had been considered carefully for merit even before it was voiced? That being out here is the end result of some bored councilman's imagination, rather than a delicate and vital attempt to strengthen our ties to the new Horde under Warchief Thrall? Quite frankly, Magus Skychaser, if we wished someone to probe our battle plans for errors there are many in Theramore imminently more capable of that task than you. "

Crys felt the blood rush to his face at the veiled insult, his reply forced past clenched teeth. " Then why _am _I here? What do you wish of me? "

The raised finger disappeared behind a folded arm, but Tervosh's posture was no less rigid.

" To fall into line, for one. Just because you're not bumping elbows with the footmen doesn't mean you possess a rank that allows you to speak insolently to a commander of either faction. You will treat them and me with all the proper deference, if you remember how, " the archmage challenged coolly.

" And second? " the quel'dorei prompted, arms folded as well but managing to keep his simmering temper out of his voice.

" Good intelligence is a primary element for this to work, and work it shall. Your skill with blade and spell will serve us, but you have another talent that is of even greater import right now. Not one scout has been able to positively identify Khan Hratha. We need a target to aim the combined blades of Alliance and Horde against, and you will provide us with it, " Tervosh explained carefully.

Crys let out a long, slow gust of air from his nostrils, letting his anger be carried away with it.

" I still need to have physically been in the place I'm scrying. How do you propose to get me inside their stronghold? "

" For that you need to speak to Baritanas Skyriver the hippogryph master. I'm certain that between the two of you a solution will present itself and it will have my full support, whatever your plan. "

Tervosh must have noticed the conflict on Crys'annadath's face as he wrestled with the logistics of this monumental task, for his expression softened, and the words that came next did not hold the razor's edge the ones prior had.

" This is an incredibly important task that has been given to you. If we strike down the wrong centaur, then Ghostwalker Post, Shadowprey village and Nijel's Point will fall under the combined might of the centaurs, resulting in the death of hundreds and cutting off our only inroads into this territory. If we have no positive identification, then our strike force will flounder directionless within the Valley of Spears and the losses will be staggering. We need to know this khan; where he sleeps, where he holds court, how many travel with him, everything. We are relying on you in this, and the sooner it is done, the sooner we can all return to other matters… " he trailed with a nod of farewell before striding away. Crys understood the intent of his last words; _we can get this done before the ships leave, but we need your help first._

While the joint commanders moved their strategizing under the shady roof of the inn the rank-and-file troops spent their time drilling and sparring, the roar of dwarven musket mingling with the clash of blades and orcish warcries. If an observer took their eyes from the two groups and only listened, it would have been impossible to tell if a real battle was being waged or not. Sergeants from both sides kept a watchful eye to make sure no stray bullet or spear 'accidentally' went in the direction it wasn't supposed to. Armed guards from both factions also kept a watch around the well, the one location where the two forces were guaranteed to meet, weapon in hand and heart pounding. It would only take a cut in line or a careless elbow to spark a real fight under the hot Desolace sun.

Crys'annadath was concerned with neither the strained civility of the planning nor the dark, disdainful looks cast back and forth on the dusty plains below. The sun beat upon the elf's back like a forge-hot hammer, his head tilted downwards to shield his eyes from the worst of the glare. He had already shed his leather cloak and tunic, the emerald green linen shirt he wore underneath had lost its clean and pressed nature hours prior, now becoming wrinkled and damp with his perspiration. Puffs of dust rose with each of his steps, his path taking him up a slope towards the western corner of the plateau where he was told the flight master Baritanas resided with his feathered charges.

An impromptu sun shade had been constructed with a large piece of canvas the size of, and probably made from, a ship's main sail lashed to a semi-circle of bleak white pillars with a dizzying array of ropes. In the shadows below three low wooden boxes had been constructed, square in shape and the interior piled high with dry grasses and reeds. They looked very much like bird's nests, which suited the bird-like creatures within each. Hippogryphs. They preened and ruffled their feathers in the dry desert air, their great raven-like heads peering about aimlessly until the elf crested the rise, then six oil black eyes fixed squarely upon him. Antlers like those adorning the skull of a buck sprouted from the heads of two of the three, the last bearing a less regal and elaborate set. Probably a female, judging by the jade sheen to her feathers rather than the indigo of her companions. A sharp chirp of warning escaped the female's pointed beak, a strikingly pink tongue lolling out for a second. Crys had been so unprepared for it that the word had almost slipped past him without even registering. The chirp was actually the word "stranger" in Darnassian, her inflection and the speed at which she had said it made it almost indecipherable from the normal noise a bird would make. The elven wizard paused where he was, a little uncertain how these apparently intelligent creatures would react to him.

The males angled their graceful heads up to their full height and puffed out their chests, their black wings rising up while bird-like forelegs, complete with wickedly curved talons as long as the quel'dorei's middle finger, clasped the edge of their nests.

" Begone! "

" You smell of demon! "

The words escaped the two males parted beaks in an angry torrent, sharp and rapid. To one who did not know the language of the night elves it may just have been a raucous, animalistic warning, but in either case the message was clear: he was not wanted here. Crys'annadath almost turned to leave but then stood his ground. Speaking with Baritanas was his only way to prove his worth on this venture, and the prejudices of several magical beasts would not dissuade them, not after all he had been through.

" I seek Baritanas Skyriver. I would speak with him. " Crys replied in the best Darnassian he could manage, his words probably sounding as garbled and nigh incoherent as the hippogryphs'.

" He will not speak to you, tainted one. Leave before I fling you off the cliff face! " the one male chattered at him, making a show of bounding from the nest and flaring open his impressive wingspan, the claws of the forelegs and stag-like hooves of the hind clacking hollowly against the arbor's stone floor. Crys twitched reflexively but did not back away. While they were intelligent the elf knew a primal threat display when it was presented to him. All species had one, and it all boiled down to who blinked first. The hippogryph was close now, within striking distance, but if he had wanted to attack he would have just done so. It was a test of resolve.

" I'll hear those words from him, and we'll see who flings whom off this cliff, " the warmage returned curtly, staring directly into the beast's inscrutable black orbs. How one was supposed to intimidate something thrice your size with a number of sharp natural weapons pointed at you was something of a mystery to the quel'dorei, but he stuck to his decision because of pride more than anything else.

" I'll be the judge of to whom I speak, and any more posturing from the two of you and you'll both be over the side and working out your differences on the way down. "

Daring to take his eyes off the hippogryph for a moment to see the source of the voice Crys spied a kaldorei making his way up the slope, back bent slightly as he carried his burden of filled water skins over both shoulders. His garb was simple and in only passable repair, a faded leather jerkin decorated with some glossy black feathers hung loosely over his otherwise bare chest tanned indigo by the harsh sun. Held in place by leather cord his linen pants, dun in color, stirred in the omnipresent wind, the hems frayed to tatters. His feet were bare, clad only in a thick layer of Desolace dust, his few adornments a simple bronze torc around his right bicep and the fang of some sort of predator on a leather thong around his brow. His hair was long and deep green, held up and away from his head and neck by a two inch sleeve of leather wrappings, looking dried out and frayed by the hot desert air.

With barely a glance of luminous golden eyes in his direction the wind rider stepped past Crys to stand unafraid before the looming hippogryph.

" You. Back in your nest, or you can get your own water next time. I'd like to see you operate a well with those great talons of yours, " he rebuked evenly, as if he spoke to a petulant teen in front of company. The hippogryph's wings lowered to press against its flanks, switching its eyes from the quel'dorei to the night elf.

" But he…. " the male chirped, irritated and defensive.

" Back to your _nest_, Blackcloud. I'm certain Jadecrest was very impressed at how you defended the aerie, now I would appreciate some of that respect you were sent here to learn about, " Baritanas insisted, putting it in a tone that broached no complaint.

Ruffling the shimmering feathers around his neck and casually backing up into his nest like he was doing it of his own volition the hippogryph called Blackcloud cast one final piercing look at Crys'annadath before settling back down. With a nod of approval Baritanas lowered his burden onto the stone floor and, selecting one skin filled to near bursting, removed the stopper before beginning to pour the contents into a shallow wooden trough set before each nest. Crys folded his arms loosely across his chest and forced himself to be patient while the flight master went about his chore, watching as the hippogryphs, at ease now that Baritanas was there, drank and splashed the water over their heads like their tiny avian cousins would around a simple bird bath.

" Drink up, I will return shortly, " the night elf said to them all with a gesture of parting.

" Be careful, he's one of the fallen elves, " Blackcloud cautioned, sending a glare Crys's way.

" I am well aware of what he is, thank you. You would do well to not speak everything that comes to mind, " Baritanas sighed, his frustration and patience equally clear.

With that the wind rider began to walk away from the trio of bird-beasts, Crys taking that as a queue to follow, forced to make slightly quicker strides to match the pace of the taller kaldorei.

" You'll forgive Blackcloud, of course. He was sent to me to learn his place in the flock and in the world at large. He's fiercely protective of his kin, especially the young female Jadecrest. You understand how it is, " Baritanas explained, speaking like the hippogrpyh were a rebellious son rather than a winged beast.

" I've been called worse by deadlier. I've grown…_accustomed_ to it, " the warmage responded with feigned nonchalance.

" There's blood on the wind, and more to come. You seeking me out has something to do with the coming battle, does it not? " Baritanas said after only a moment's silence.

" Indeed it does. I've been charged with scouting out the Valley of Spears and in order to do that I need to actually go there… " Crys trailed off, letting the wind rider pick up the rest of the thought.

" And you need someone swift and daring enough to get you there. I understand. The centaur of Maraudon are deadly shots with both spear and bow. Anything short of flying into a barrage of arrows though, I will do. I will take you there, but retrieval will be tricky, nigh impossible, " Baritanas mused aloud in response. Crys made an assenting noise while he weighed the options himself. Minutes later, a ruined tower casting its shadow over the two of them the high elven wizard stopped and spoke again.

" I can handle getting back, and I have formulated a plan to get around within the stronghold itself, I just need to get there, and not too high up. My magic will handle a fall, just not further up than bow range. "

The wry, daredevil grin on Baritanas's face was clearly visible even in the deep shade.

" Just within bow range? Onyxwing and I have taunted the Maraudine several times over the past months by swooping close to their stronghold and then just as swiftly ascending to a height their projectiles cannot reach. I think we may be up for another run of it. When will you have us ready? "

" This very evening. I trust a half-moon is not too much light by which to attempt this? "

The grin on Baritanas's lips did not fade.

" Since we cannot wait for a full, it will have to do. This eve then. The centaur will once again bear witness to true aerial grace and speed. "

Night came entirely too soon and not soon enough. Crys had restored a good portion of the magical skill and focus he had lost along with his able physique from two years of living a drunkard, but this mission would be his first real test of both. Failure here would guarantee him a gruesome death at the hands of the centaur, putting an unsatisfactory end to his plans to sail the seas and return to Azeroth. While still warm the night had cooled the grey desert, making it almost tolerable to exist in. Crys still traveled light, everything but his clothing, blade, water skin and a few necessary spell components left behind at the inn. The thought of random footmen pawing through his possessions should he not return made the warmage grind his teeth and silently swear he would survive this.

As Crys'annadath trudged up the slope leading to the wind rider's aerie he glanced over his shoulder to the dusty plain below. Dozens of fires burned on parched earth between huddles of shadowed men like bright embers amongst the grey and black ashes of a nearly dead hearth. The rough, often loud conversations of hundreds of men-at-arms were a steady murmur to Crys's sweeping elven ears. They were in surprisingly good spirits considering with whom they shared their camp ground with, though watches would likely be very tight should one side or the other decide a throat slit in the night would help ease the discomfort of sleeping so close to what was once an enemy.

The tableau greeting the elf when he turned his attention back to the fore was quite different. Framed against the rising half-moon Baritanas and their transport for the foray, Onyxwing, were a study in frosted light and elegant silhouette, the hippogryph's claws and hoofed feet stirring up dust as he tramped, rising about the two figures like cool morning mist. The quel'dorei was secretly glad that it would not be Blackcloud that carried them both aloft tonight. He had enough to worry about without wondering if the beast beneath him would buck and send the hated elf tumbling out of the sky.

" He won't be too burdened with the two of us? " Crys asked quietly when he was close enough, trying to lay to rest at least some of the doubts spiraling through his mind.

" I will manage fine, " the hippogryph replied directly. " You do not weigh as much as Master Skyriver and we will not have to worry about maneuverability until you are off. Your added weight will actually aid in the initial dive. "

A tiny, exasperated sigh preceded Crys's apology.

" I'm sorry, um, Onyxwing. In future I will address such concerns to you directly. "

The smile Baritanas directed at Crys's discomfort was a sliver of white against the dark hues of his face, but rather than further jibes he offered a question instead.

" We have taken everything into consideration. Have you done the same? " the night elf queried as he made some final, tiny adjustments to Onyxwing's simple leather tack.

" The middle of a hostile fortress is a poor place to regret something left behind, I agree. I am prepared, " the elven wizard assured the kaldorei.

" Then we're burning moonlight, " came the simple reply as Baritanas, with practiced ease, slipped up into the specially designed saddle across the cervine portion of the hippogryph. All that remained was for Crys to mount.

Uncomfortable with suddenly being put into such close proximity with two strangers the warmage pushed such concerns deep below his conscious level and awkwardly took a place behind Baritanas. Onyxwing had all but seated himself upon the ground to help the elf mount, a well-intentioned gesture that seemed almost condescending if Crys chose to look at it as such. The hippogryph smelled of dust and wild animal, not the tame scents of a well-tended horse who called a stable home, increasing the foreignness of being atop the winged creature. Clamping onto the beasts's flanks with his legs Crys swallowed his pride and gripped Baritanas' shoulders, finding he had to have his torso at a slight angle to avoid the night elf's pony tail from hitting his face.

" Ready, " Crys said with more certainty than he felt.

" I doubt that, " the night elf said over his shoulder with a short bark of a laugh.

With a few side-steps to adjust to the new weight atop him Onyxwing stepped towards the cliff's edge and plummeted off, taking his two riders with him. What Crys had considered a tight grip before increased two fold as his stomach, once resting comfortably where it always had, leapt up to his throat as the world simply disappeared beneath him. This was not like teleporting, where he knew the rhythm of the spells as intimately as a conductor knew a musical score and with it the confidence of knowing would happen when. This was gravity seizing a hold of his body and attempting to dash it against the ground below, only prevented from doing so by a hippogryph's wide black wings flapping in defiance. Even from his seat near the hip bones of the creature's rear legs Crys could feel the strength of the muscles used to propel the wings, and possessed no doubts that properly used a hippogryph's wing would make as lethal a bludgeoning weapon as any ogre's club.

Their dive was slowly leveled off as great raven wings flapped and swiveled to halt their descent, using it to gain forward momentum for a gradual rise in altitude as the miles began to pass beneath them. Once they had risen to what was apparently a comfortable cruising altitude Onyxwing leveled off his flight, the beat of his wings steady and regular with short lapses into gliding to conserve energy. Now that the initial terror of the drop was past and with no surprises readily apparent Crys relaxed his death grip slightly and swiveled his head around to take in the panorama laid out for him by the airborne vantage point.

The light of the great white moon, half-lidded as it was still turned the landscape below a jigsaw of rocky outcroppings, canyons and mesas and the absolute shadows they cast. Roving packs of hyenas prowled the gloom along the twisting, crude roads, looking for sleepy or out-numbered travelers to feast upon while tiny points of yellow light in the distance spoke of isolated huts shut tight against the creatures that stalked the land. Baritanas pointed out a distinctly orcish-looking fortress to the north, framed against rugged peaks like a brutal warlord atop a rocky throne. Plumes of smoke rose from amongst the spiny towers of the keep, the source of which, be they great forges or demonic magicks, painted the walls a sinister red. As they past parallel to the stronghold the wind rider spoke the name 'Tyranis' softly with a sad shake of his head, as if visiting a grave site. That was all he uttered, leaving Crys to only guess at the relationship the invoked person had with Baritanas or what his ultimate fate was.

Many more miles disappeared under the hippogryph's beating wings, heading towards another mountainous region to the south-west. Since there was little to see besides wind-swept dusty plains Crys turned his focus inwards, running over the patterns of the spells he would need in the next tense hours. Invoking two spells at once was incredibly tricky and taxing for even experienced magus, and failure with one or the either at a crucial moment meant the difference between being shot full of arrows or smashing against uncaring rocks. He would be dead when he hit the ground in both scenarios. Crys had grown accustomed to the smooth cadence of the hippogryph's wings by then, the rhythm almost soothing and allowing him to concentrate far better than he had expected to a mile above the ground. He would be prepared when they arrived at their destination.

" Ready yourself, Magus Skychaser. We approach the lair of our enemies. "

Those words shattered the silent calm that the warmage had built around himself, but he felt only a flicker of uncertainty. His eyes opened to see the peaks that were so distant before now looming above them, the hundreds of pin-pricks of light that were torches illuminating the winding canyons and ravines of the Valley of Spears.

" I am prepared. Get me within bow range and then get yourselves clear. I hope to see you again before the morn. "

" For a creature without wings you are a daring one, " Onyxwing chirped while pumping his wings faster, building speed and altitude as they prepared to dive.

" A chick has to step past the edge of their nest some day, " the elven wizard responded, trying to keep his tone light-hearted despite what he was about to do.

" Ha! That's the truth. And I think it feels a little something like this! " Baritanas howled as he nudged the hippogryph to dip his nose and fold his wings.

For Crys, it felt as if Onyxwing had suddenly been turned to stone so rapid was their drop. Again, his stomach flip-flopped and the spells that were so clear moments ago fluttered around like caged butterflies in his mind. The wind screamed past them, causing hair and clothing to whip and snap like flags before a storm. The ground came at them altogether too rapidly, and Crys's clenched teeth fought to keep from shouting at the flight master to pull up and attempt another run. _The time is now!_ The quel'dorei admonished himself, the fingers on his right hand slipping under his belt and retrieving the vital spell component. Pinched tightly enough to make his knuckles ache was a long white feather, carefully gathered from the wing feathers of a bird who had died of old age. Reagent in hand Crys then invoked another enchantment, the fingers on his left hand weaving fluidly and then sliding over his eyes as if to close the staring orbs of a dead man.

A tingle raced over his skin, telling him that the first enchantment had taken hold. Like trying to write a treatise with both hands simultaneously Crys held the first pattern in an endless loop while threading another spell, the centaur below having noticed the black bolt racing towards their stronghold and notched arrows and readied spears. Second spell nearing completion the elven wizard then did the most difficult thing he would have to endure that night… he loosened his legs and slipped off the side of Onyxwing just as he felt the hippogryph begin to tip upwards. Crys fought down the instinctive urge to scream and flail as he plunged, closing his eyes tight as the magic for the slow fall spell burst into completion.

Instantly the elf's fall was arrested and reduced to the pace of a leaf drifting to the forest floor. Daring to look he saw Onyxwing and Baritanas bank up and away as a flurry of arrows and javelins rocketed upwards towards them. Still held in its death grip the feather burned as if it were a lit fuse, the top of it already consumed as the magic magnified the hundreds of hours spent aloft and fed upon it to slow Crys's own descent. No steel-tipped shaft headed the elf's way, the centaur oblivious to his approach as they shouted and cursed in their crude tongue at the fleeing wind rider. The first spell, invisibility, continued to loop around and around, corralled only with concentration intense enough to make the elf break into a sweat. Still the feather burned, already half consumed as the ground and the painted, half-equine bodies of Maraudine centaur milled about rose up to meet him. Down and down it burned, feathery white reduced to nothing, eating at the quill itself, nearing where Crys held it firmly. Head pounding with the strain of maintaining both spells the last vestiges of the feather vanished in a small puff of smoke and once again gravity asserted itself. The fall was only roughly six feet, but the impact enough to cause Crys to grunt in shock and almost loose his grip on the live-saving illusion. He rolled to a stop and froze, not even daring to breath as the befuddled, leering faces of the gathered centaur looked about for the source of the noise. Seated, the elf watched the forelegs of one large male come to a stop but a hand-width from his knee before, satisfied that there was nothing present, wheeled about and left.

Crys waited for the commotion caused by the daring night elf and his mount to settle before attempting to move from his spot. Getting to his feet quietly the quel'dorei snuck around the outcropping of rock he had landed by, choosing each step and breath carefully. The area in which he had landed was merely a thoroughfare, only a few shelters and weapon racks present beside the torches atop long poles driven into the dusty soil. Making sure to stir as little of the sandy ground as he could Crys'annadath began to move, following a snaking path deeper into the heart of centaur lands.

The Valley of Spears was well defended and fortified. Taking every advantage of the switch-back nature of the canyons ramps had been carved into the walls, allowing a unit of archers to quickly gain a good vantage point and unleash deadly volleys upon invaders. Palisade walls reinforced choke-points at the top of inclines, forcing charging foes through narrow kill zones where only a handful of skilled defenders would be needed to hold them at bay while a killing rain of spears would arc over their heads and tear into the enemy ranks. Piles of boulders sat on the edges of some canyons, where nothing more than a solid kick would send stones the size of a dwarf tumbling down, crushing and panicking any foot soldiers caught beneath. It wasn't long into his journey through this maze of death that Crys found what it was he was looking for.

A patrol of four centaur, three male and a female, trudged their way along a route that was either complex or completely random. The patrol would create a break through crowds that Crys himself could not, allowing him to travel without fear of being stepped upon or struck accidently. Taking a position as close behind the rear centaur as his caution and his nose could tolerate the elf measured his footfalls to coincide with theirs and became an unseen but just as observant fifth member. The centaur spoke little, the occasional grunt of a comment when another of their kind had passed them by, most likely an insult judging by the dark chuckles that followed. After probably a mile of dimly-lit canyons and non-descript check points the patrol finally emerged into an area bathed in firelight, a nexus of the horse-men's society.

The rumble of conversation and, somewhere, the squeal of a wood-wind instrument being played poorly floated around and enveloped Crys's hearing just as the crushing odors of unwashed animal and sweat assailed his nose. Centaur stood around cooking fires, shaving off pieces of boar meat still bloody and steaming with their long knives and laughed like drunkards, callous and loud, at a shared joke. Others knelt on the ground, crude worktables set before them as they fletched arrows with feathers from the severed wings of vultures before tying them in neat bundles for young ones to collect and deliver. Centaur children, their equine lower bodies resembling skinny-legged colts shrieked and chased one another through the crowded area, dodging nimbly around the slower-moving adults, no doubt learning the maneuvering tricks that would serve them in later life. The younglings looked innocent and care-free at first glance, but the look of fierce joy on their faces as they roughly pushed their prey to the ground and kicked him mercilessly quickly smothered that illusion. Centaur, it seemed, were born brutal and wicked.

The patrol moved on and Crys followed. Their route took them up a gentle slope, closer towards the mountains that towered over the whole region. It seemed a major causeway for the Maraudine, the patrol a single column amidst dozens of centaur travelling to and fro, stopping in small clusters to confer on some matter before parting their separate ways. The warmage saw too, centaur from other tribes, those with body paint of yellow and green, looking ill at ease amongst the overwhelming numbers of Maraudine and keeping to their own clusters.

The press of equine bodies on all sides only heightened the stench the creatures exuded, their flanks twitching as glossy black flies the size of a thumb nail swarmed around and on them. It became abundantly clear also that the centaur cared nothing for sanitation, their droppings littering the ground where they had fallen, only to be trampled into the dusty soil by hoofed feet, creating a sort of rancid paste. Crys fought the urge to retch as he also tried to step around or over the fresher samples, a booted foot print suddenly appearing in a pile of dung would raise suspicion, not to mention the distinctive trail he would leave. Trying to covertly wipe the result of an unsuccessful evasion off the bottom of his boot Crys happened to glance up, his view temporarily cleared of the sight of filthy centaur flanks to reveal sight he was not expecting.

Lording over the whole area was a stone monolith, crafted by hands far more skilled than any centaur and likely just as old as their misbegotten race. It depicted a reptilian monster of some sort leaning forward menacingly, stone spear clamped in a hand with three thick fingers and a thumb. Its maw gaped, viper fangs looking as smooth and sharp as if the craftsmen had just finished yesterday while the ridged eyes glowed red like some fearsome intelligence lurked behind them. Embedded into the chest of the stone monster were a pair of double doors, simply yet expertly carved and flanked by no fewer than eight guards, each bearing the finest weapons and adornments plunder could offer, scanning the crowds with a look of bored menace.

_What was behind those doors? _Crys wondered. Likely some sort of temple or fortress, used for whatever purpose the centaur found for it after they had taken over the area. If there was a khan, he probably dwelt in there, letting intruders face hordes of loyal guards before meeting him directly. Would the strike force have to penetrate this deep into the valley to slay the khan? The elf had little time to ponder that question for he was suddenly bereft of any cover with dozens of centaur passing around him. Crys jerked back just in time to avoid being struck by forelegs of a warrior as another travelling the other direction pushed him back rapidly, the quel'dorei frantically looking for an opening in the crowd to dart through.

Fate smiled upon him then, a rare thing if he were forced to review its hand in his life. Centaur suddenly paused and side-stepped as if anticipating some large object to pass them by, giving Crys a chance to avoid being swept up by the crowd. Two large, well-armed centaur, their humanoid torsos bearing chest plates of bronze and crested helms broke a path through the rank-and-file beast men, clearing a path for their charge who followed several paces behind.

This centaur was at the very least a high-ranking warlord, if not the khan himself. Wearing a mantle of stolen purple silk he was clad in a rough mix of chain and plate that covered not only his upper humanoid torso but his lower equine half as well. A metal-shafted spear was gripped in his hand, the leaf-shaped blade glimmering in the torchlight. Rings glittered and bracelets jangled at a slightly higher pitch than the rustle of the mail, all plunder cut from the fingers of merchant travelers set upon by centaur raiders. Crys slipped carefully around the guards, allowing the adorned centaur commander to pass within a foot of his invisible form before taking up a position directly behind him. Most of the glances sent his way were of thinly veiled envy and anger, yet not one centaur would meet his challenging gaze. To the elven wizard's great disappointment, though, the high-ranking centaur did not enter through the stone doors beneath the statue, instead continuing on past it, like a lord out surveying his lands.

Crys followed, committing as much detail to memory as he could with his mind divided between that and the task of maintaining the illusion that was keeping him alive. The strain was beginning to tell upon him, sweat beading up uncomfortably on his face and his breath becoming labored while a headache like a tightening band of iron around his brow slowly grew harder to ignore. Worse still, the gnawing cold in his belly told him that his magical reserves were slipping fast, carried past the screaming maw of the addiction but not into it. All told, he had probably been wandering around for almost an hour, passing through numerous guard posts and one major nexus of community life. _If_ this centaur was the khan, then Crys would have a chance to see him again via the Sorcerous Sight, now that the elf knew that he wandered around outside the cavern fortress. It was time to find a quiet spot and teleport back to Nijel's Point, lest a slip in his concentration reveal him to the extremely hostile residents. As if to reinforce this point the small entourage passed by the flayed body of a troll scout on a 'X' frame rack, left to rot in the sun. Such was the fate of those who dared too much and were caught.

A low, dangerous growl leapt to Crys's ears then, coming from his right. A pack of hyenas, barely domesticated layed there, save one which had climbed to its feet and glared right at him as if the illusion wasn't there. The spotted beast's nostrils flared with each huff of wind, drinking in the elf's scent. Thin black lips peeled back from curved, yellowed fangs as the hyena advanced, ears flattened against its skull as it barked savagely, saliva scattering in all directions. Thinking swiftly Crys moved to put the centaur commander between him and the guard animal, ducking down to keep an eye its progress forward. His hand reached down to grip the handle of his sword, but he knew that if he had to draw it he was as good as dead.

The trio of centaur paused as the hyena paced forward, head low and intent obvious. Scowling, the leader looked from the animal to the master, who stood nearby, scouring the area for that which had upset one of his hounds. Crys'annadath swallowed hard as the hyena advanced further still, black eyes fixed on him solely, eyes that saw him as nothing more than a walking piece of meat to be torn into bite-sized chunks while he still breathed. The centaur commander spoke then, low and threatening at first but then reaching an accusatory bellow at the end. The hound master started, the long black whip held coiled in his hand unfurling like a striking snake. The sharp crack of the braided leather made Crys jump, so focused on the hyena had he been. The animal yelped pathetically from the unexpected blow, crouching down while protesting its mistreatment with an undulating yowl. Again the whip sang against flesh, the hyena having no choice but to return and cower amongst its fellows, curled up on its side and whimpering. Satisfied that the hyena had been properly disciplined the centaur leader bid his guards to continue walking with a grunt, while he and an invisible yet shaken elf followed. It was indeed time to leave.

Having split off and moved away as swiftly as he dared Crys managed to slip behind a bend in a ravine before the strain became too much and the spell chain broke, his body becoming visible like a figure revealing itself through a thick fog, details slowly filling in until he was fully there. Resting his back against the stone wall of the crevasse the warmage tried to settle his racing heart and mind, breath coming in hard gasps. He had almost dared too much. His reserves were nearly spent and there was still the energy needed to spirit him away from this foul place. Hands shaking slightly as he reached down to his water skin Cyr uncapped it and took a mouthful of the warm liquid, swallowing it in small portions, setting his concentration upon that simple task rather than the ache in his belly or the pain in his head. The lip of the skin was half-way up for a second mouthful when the muffled thuds of hooves on sandy ground told Crys that he would not be alone for much longer.

Only refreshed just enough to notice the difference from before the quel'dorei quickly replaced the stopper in the water skin and pushed himself away from the rock wall. He had to attempt the teleport now. Climbing up and away would be too slow and too loud, and even then it would only buy him a few moments more. Like slipping from the back of the hippogryph, it was a now or never scenario. Taking up a solid stance Crys bid the patterns to mind, right arm raised up shoulder height and positioned by his left. Blue light flared out from under him, casting its eldritch glow over the smooth, wind-carved stone of the ravine. Even the thrumming sound the evocation created was not enough to cover the sounds of alarm from the approaching centaur, who increased their pace as they hastened to investigate the strange glow. Crys paid them no mind, twisting, forcing what little energy he had left within him into the pattern of the spell like a maid would wring a damp rag for every last drop of moisture.

The centaur rounded the bend, a small patrol like the one Crys had followed around initially. They shouted in anger and warning, spears and arrows raised with their deadly tips towards the defenseless elf. The world around the wizard began to be washed away by the azure glow, the four-legged guards like hazy shadows the menaced from afar. Bowstrings sung and hooves struck earth in rapid succession, Crys turning his head to see, as if in slow motion, their lethal points closing the distance.

A flash then, and the world slipped away, the dark of the night, the advancing centaur guards, the shafts of death descending upon him, all gone. And instant later, just as light had banished darkness the night once again swallowed up the glow of the spell, floating runes of power flickering out like candles snuffed by the wind.

Crys fell forward onto all fours, knees and palms striking desert soil as he struggled to remember how to breathe. Finally, a strangled gasp filled his lungs, followed by another. Spots danced before his eyes that no amount of blinking could chase away. He had found his body's limit and toed the line, there was no doubt about that. A dusty hand left the cool earth and roamed around his torso, assuring himself that no shaft lay buried there. No, he was whole and unharmed. A fragment of a second later and the story would have been very different indeed. Footsteps approached him from the left, the pace unhurried. Twisting his neck around to gaze upwards he saw Baritanas looking down upon him, the sliver of white that was his broad smile clearly visible in the wane light of the half moon.

" Welcome back. Blackcloud will be so disappointed to hear you made it. "

Crys offered a croak in response. It was all he could do to take the night elf's offered hand as he was hauled to his feet, lacking the strength or coordination to do so himself. Slinging the warmage's arm around his broad shoulders like one would for a drunk or an invalid the wind rider carried the exhausted high elf towards the lights of the inn. The next morning, Crys wouldn't even remember his collapse into bed.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

A warm desert wind gently stirring his blond hair was the first sensation Crys felt as he awoke, the rest of the world rushing to greet his other senses; the clatter of plates, the smell of bread, the feel of a surprisingly comfortable bed beneath him, his mouth tasting of the thick sourness often present after a night's sleep. A moment of panic, sparked by muddled memories of the night previous caused a body-wide jerk and his eyes to flutter open wildly before soothed again by

the realization that he had, in fact, returned safely, if only just barely. Hand coming up to rub his brow the elf lay still for a few moments longer before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and forcing himself into a seated position. A pained hiss escaped his dry lips as his movements brought the icy lance of the magical addiction to the fore, stabbing him in the gut vengefully for daring to expend all of his reserves on his last-second effort to escape.

It was well past dawn, the south-facing window revealing the camp on the plain below, drawing long shadows amongst the tents and soldiers finishing up their morning meal. Crys quickly noted that his outer tunic, boots and sword belt had been removed, sitting neatly upon a simple stool near the foot of the bed. The room was very open, more like a balcony with low walls that met up with the four pillars that supported the gracefully sloped roof high above him. Each bed was cordoned off with two strategically placed wood screens that allowed the sounds and smells of nature to filter in, an important trait for race that prided itself on its close ties to the natural world. Crys loved the out-of-doors too, but there were times, like when winds blew grains of sand into your open mouth, that things like that should remain outdoors.

The high elf sat silent and still for a few moments more as the events of the night previous played through his head, the faint shouts of warriors being called to duty drifting up to mingle with the sounds of the kitchen below him. With a creak of wood and joint Crys'annadath stood and, the tips of his fingers pressed against the source of his pain like a one would with a runner's cramp, dressed as well as he could with the other hand. Perhaps something in his belly would curb the ache there. A hot bath would work as well, one that he probably needed after walking about in centaur muck, but in this harsh land a luxury like that would come one time in a month.

His descent down the ramp was noted by almost all in the common room, even if it was only a glance in his direction, and not many were friendly . Here the commanders sat breaking their fast, quietly discussing matters while their kaldorei hosts wound their way through chairs and tables, clearing platters and sweeping floors. The only one who actively acknowledged his arrival was Tervosh, who beckoned him over. Trying to remain fully upright and the pain from his face as he removed his bracing hand Crys crossed the room to where the archmage, Strongshield and Captain Harlowe sat around a large circular table, upon which a rough sketch of the Valley of Spears was laid out, a small army of pewter plates, mugs and crumbs having already surrounded it quite effectively.

" This morning has you feeling better I trust? " Tervosh queried over the rim of his wine goblet before taking a sip. " You were in quite the state when you arrived last night. After our healers determined it was extreme mental fatigue that you suffered from last night and not physical injury we figured a good night's rest was in order. "



" Yes and no, " Crys offered in response to his initial question, letting its cryptic nature dissuade any follow-ups. He was not in the habit of explaining the exact nature of his addiction to anyone, much less while kaldorei were within ear shot.

" Nothing that would hamper your _other_ duties while under my command? I would like nothing more than to allow you a full day to recover, but you know as well as I the time table we are all subject to…" the archmage trailed off while making some illegible notation with an inked quill on the map's edge.

" I will fulfill all of my required duties, as we all must, " the elven wizard returned, setting his gaze upon a spot in the distance and assuming a military stance; open palms clasped behind his back, legs straight and shoulder-width apart. The "ready-and-capable" act almost worked except a particularly sharp stab of pain forced a small grunt out from Crys's throat, a noise easily noted by the ever-perceptive Tervosh.

" Well, certainly avail yourself to what small comforts can be found in a inhospitable land like this. Our night elf allies have pledged everything they can spare to aid us, be it food, lodging, moon wells… " he offered casually, letting the last few words dangle like bait in the air between them. Crys instantly snapped his attention back to the archmage's face, studying the human intently to be sure he had heard what he did.

Under the other's scrutiny Tervosh eventually swung his gaze up to meet the elf's, his blue-green eyes impassive.

" The night elves here have come to _understand_ your unique requirements and have permitted the use of their moon well to facilitate a speedy recovery and sharpen your focus in the days ahead. It is a hard-fought and rare privilege, from what I understand. Don't abuse it. "

The kaldorei _understanding_ his requirements was likely a polite way of saying they've adopted a "grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it "attitude considering the extreme circumstances they faced. With access to the moon well permitted the thoughts of bathing and eating vanished like morning mist, and it took a considerable amount of effort for Crys not to walk out right then and there. By the nether, the thought of simply teleporting to get down there faster had already passed through his mind twice.

" When I have, _recovered,_ I will write a report detailing my scouting mission last night and then begin scrying upon the centaur stronghold. Is there anything else ? " the quel'dorei asked, silently pleading that their dialogue had indeed, concluded.

" No, you are dismissed for the time being, " Tervosh replied, his gaze once again returning to the map.

Crys nodded curtly and began walking towards one of the open sides of the building, trying to keep the hunger out of his pace but only managing to do so until his feet reached desert soil. His cheeks flushed as he felt like every eye in the room was upon him as he quickly exited but hoped it was only his imagination.

More eyes awaited him down on the plain below the inn but most were a cursory glance in his direction as the lone elf made his way towards the sacred kaldorei pool, the cornerstone of their religious and social life. Night elf guards and laborers at the nearby smithy cast their gazes upon him as well, luminous eyes of white or gold narrowing in disdain or pity. Their leaders had agreed, but that didn't mean they liked the idea. It was letting the fox into the chicken coop and hoping everything turned out all right. Azure ribbons of energy rippled upwards for roughly six feet before dissipating into nothingness, the evaporation of any liquid only made visible by the magical nature of the fluid. It was also power. Serene and beautiful like a full moon in a clear night sky, but power nonetheless. Crys's footsteps slowed to a crawl as the first teasing waves of energy washed over him, a trickle of water poured into a pot burned dry, consumed as 

quickly as it arrived. His own words from nearly a year prior rang hollow in his ears as he took a few more staggering steps, about how he would owe the night elves nothing, even if they had agreed to put a moon well in the city-fortress of Theramore. He would cut off the nose to spite the face, it would seem.

The magic poured into him now, filling that dark, empty spot in him that had been vacant for years. It was _different_ than the Sunwell, in so many ways. This was the cool and tenderly placed cloth on a fevered brow rather than warm sunshine on a full belly. It felt somehow alien to him, but he was in no state of mind to reject it because of that. A parched desert traveler did not complain of the mineral taste of the water from an oasis.

One step further and Crys fell to his knees inches from the stone basin, the burning of the rising sun and the glares cast at his back from curious or contemptuous eyes was soothed and obliterated by the steady flow of mana around and in him. It was staggering, how much he missed it. How he had managed for years to get by, subsist, when the whole time something like this was at his fingertips. He didn't want to contemplate what he would do to get at a moon well again. His upper body fell forward, slender fingers curling into the grey sandy soil beneath them, hair hanging about his face like a cowl. He couldn't see but he could _feel_ the tendrils of energy sweeping down and caressing his nearly prone body like the welcoming arms of a mother around a previously lost child.

With some effort Crys managed pull himself back up into a slightly more dignified position, seated upon his lower legs, open hands resting gently on his thighs. To think, there were thousands like him, scattered and pained all across the world, feeling empty, lost. Fate had destroyed the one home that they had held for millennia against all threats, scattering them to the winds and abandoned them, turning them into a race of vagabonds and orphans. It was all too much. The warmage, whose willpower had tamed his self-destructive addiction to alcohol broke under the weight of his sorrow. He let his head tilt back, his closed eyes no barrier to the tears that trickled past and down over his angular cheeks. We wept not just for himself, but for every one of them, brothers and sisters by heritage, floundering like ships in a storm-tossed sea without the light of the Sunwell to guide them.

Anyone who was paying close attention to the quel'dorei would have seen a faint blue glow slipping out from under his eyelids, leaking into the tears that flowed so that they too, began to faintly glow blue.

Time passed. How much, Crys didn't know until he heard the sound of a pair of feet coming to a stop beside him and a nudge at his shoulder. Rage turned the calm blue of his mind red. _How dare they interrupt that which I have earned? That which I have sacrificed so much for?!_ His hands curled into fists, a snarl forming on his lips, but just as quickly the elf found himself again and pulled back from the brink. This wasn't right. This wasn't him.

While painful to do so after being closed for so long he opened his eyes, still blurred and unfocused from his earlier weeping and beheld the one who stood beside him. Baritanas.

" You've been here for an hour. We were beginning to worry. "

Crys's mind and eyes sharpened upon hearing this, blinking back the fugue that the moonwell had draped over him.



" An…hour? " was all he could bring himself to say, embarrassment muddying the clear waters the moon well filled him with. His throat was parched, for the first time in years his physical body yearning to be quenched while his soul was sated.

" Indeed. You've drunk enough to last one of us three days. Perhaps it is time to push yourself back. "

There was chiding in his voice, and disapproval, but he masked it well.

" Forgive a starving man for eating a larger share than others, " the quel'dorei said by way of apology and rebuttal.

" Indeed I do, but you are still a guest at this table, and even the most gracious host has his limits. "

With that, the wing rider turned and left, his rebuking message received.

Crys would have rose right away but his legs felt like they were on fire, the position he was in playing havoc with his circulation and he had been too blissfully unaware to shift himself to a more comfortable one. Moving to a fully seated position he massaged his legs while they recovered, his enjoyment of the moon well's energy tempered by self-admonishment. He had succumbed to the well's energy like he had a potent bottle of rum and left himself drunk and senseless in a public place. If there were any doubts in the night elves' minds about how a quel'dorei would act around one of their sacred moonwells, Crys had ruthlessly crushed it.

Far too late to do anything about it now the warmage staggered uneasily to his feet, dusted the sandy grey soil from his pants and walked stiffly away from the moon well. While he felt its soothing influence wane with each step away the feeling of completion remained. The pain of the addiction was a faint memory that menaced him from afar…for now. How long this state would last was anybody's guess, and Crys was determined to repay his hosts in any way he could. The numbness of his legs wore off as he walked just as his mind sharpened now that he was clear from the comforting embrace of the mana font. He felt more energized and capable than he had in a score of years, even the thrill of having returned to his former level of fitness paled in comparison.

By now, of course, the common room of the inn was largely deserted, with only the tauren and orc leaders, Mune and Calga still seated, conversing in whispers. Both regarded him carefully as he walked by, as if to guard themselves from the wizard prying their secrets from their minds with a spell. Crys paid them no heed, walking past and heading up the ramp to where he had seen the rest of his accruements sitting forgotten in a corner. Moments later he descended, the metal tube that held his drawing supplies in hand. He then took a seat at a table on the opposite side of the room from its other occupants as a way to assure them he had interest only in his own tasks, pulling forth his sticks of charcoal and carefully rolled vellum from within the leather-wrapped tube. A kaldorei woman, one of the staff at the inn, wound her way through the maze of tables and chairs to stand before him, looking at him without trying to see him.

" Do you wish anything to eat or drink? There is not much left, I'm afraid. Our resources are limited and we are not used to feeding so many, " she explained quietly.

" Then I will strain your resources no more than I have to. A platter with some fruit, whatever you have, dried or not, and an empty mug. The rest I will take care of myself, " the warmage replied with a cheeriness that surprised him. A little perplexed by the quel'dorei's request she nodded wordlessly and left. Several moments of shuffling later and Crys added to her retreating form; " And as much of the highest quality writing paper you can spare. "



The "paper" that arrived with dried apple slices and a fired clay mug some minutes later was nothing less than _ga'liel_, the writing surface upon which everything from holy texts about Elune to young kaldorei practicing their letters had been put. Made from a combination of inner tree bark and plant fibres pounded and shaped into a rough squares and treated with a mild wash of natural acids to bleach away the dark colors and resin to hold the fibres together better. The end result was a slightly thick, stiff sheet flecked with bits of green, purple and brown, the over-all hue the same light tan many of the humans had received from just a few days under the Desolace sun. Better quality sheets would have smaller flecks and a lighter shade to the surface, as well as straighter edges, but considering that it was likely used for supply lists and status reports, it would do.

Crys'annadath thanked her for both the food and the sheets, the inn worker only too glad to be gone from his sight as she bowed in acknowledgement and wheeled about. Muttering the words of a spell Crys waved his open palm over the clay mug, water suddenly welling up within it like a spring had formed at its base. Speaking another incantation a round loaf of dark rye with a cross-hatched top appeared on the platter next to the apple slices. Quickly taking a few deep gulps of water while it was still cool to slake his thirst Crys placed an apple slice in his mouth and held it there while sorting through the small pile of sheets before him. He would make the rough sketches and notations on the _ga'liel_ and put the finished portraits on his more refined vellum. The task seemed daunting and time-consuming but Crys did not balk; between his practice sketches up in his tower and the energy of the moonwell coursing through his body the elf felt as if he could draw the goddess Elune herself. After a couple of hastily chewed pieces of dried fruit and mouthfuls of water the wizard arranged a stick of charcoal and a sheaf of the tree-bark paper before him, then taking a deep breath, closed his eyes and willed his sense scores of miles to the south-west.

To any of the others, it merely looked as if the elf was taking long moments, sometimes half of an hour, to compose in his mind exactly what it was he wanted to draw, then spending several minutes furiously sketching out what it was he had envisioned before lapsing into a meditative focus once more. Even with his mind occupied many miles away Crys was still subconsciously aware of the rising heat as the day moved on, pausing on occasion to take a few swigs of water before shutting away the interior of the inn. The occupants of the inn varied radically between scrying spells. Mune and Calga were gone the second time he opened his eyes to record what he had seen while on the fifth the mid-day meal was being prepared and Captains Harlowe and Fairfeather were discussing some matter with one of the inn's servants. The elven wizard had enough on his mind to try and listen in on what the three were discussing, though the two soldiers left with the inn worker looking frustrated.

Crys's sixth scrying attempt was long, taking him through all the twists and turns he had visited the night previous, searching for anything or anyone worth noting. Even with the moon well's energy aiding him and his mind focused such as it had been during the war against the Scourge he could not shut out the muted rumbling of conversation nor the feel of a trickle of sweat tickling his right eyebrow as it made its way down his perspiring brow. Even seated and unmoving he perspired enough to feel as if he were suspended low over a boiling cauldron, and could only imagine how troops in chain mail under direct sunlight fared. In the coming battle the footmen would be struggling against their rising body temperature as much as their four-legged foes, all of whom were lightly armored and accustomed to the blazing climate. This train of thought and the rising noise in the common room all but made up Crys's mind to 

end his scrying, opening his eyes slowly against the glare of mid-day in the desert to see Tervosh walking in his direction, his eyes upon the high elf yet revealing no clue of the thoughts going on behind them. Taking a sip of the now warm water with a grimace of distaste the warmage watched as his superior pulled back a chair and seated himself across the table from him, only the lightest sheen of sweat upon the archmage's pale brow, probably due to a personal enchantment against the effects of the local climate.

" How fares your efforts? " was the simple question posed to Crys, the archmage's eyes now no longer upon him, but upon the line of footmen who had mustered just outside the inn and waited expectantly for their mid-day meal. The elf cleared a throat quietly and spoke.

" Well. I have identified no fewer than four centaur bearing the spoils and retinue worthy of a khan. I have made some rough preliminary sketches of them, to be refined with repeated and more intense scrutiny in the near future before rendering a final draft. I have also been observing their habits and movements throughout the day, including patrols and guard shifts. I don't have enough information yet to form a… " the elf explained, looking to the table once more and shuffling through his hastily scrawled notes to pull up the relevant material should Tervosh wish to peruse it immediately. His goal in hand, however, Crys glanced up to see that the archmage was no longer listening, his attention stolen to the line on the opposite side of the great room. Crys'annadath felt his anger rise slightly that his superior would ask a question then completely ignore his answer but as he too, glanced over to the far wall he could see what held Tervosh's attention so raptly.

Rather than forming a line behind the Alliance soliders the grunts of the Horde formed their own line beside them, both a grunt and a footman vying for the same food at the same time. To confound matters while the sergeants of both sides started to try and break up the mass into manageable groups Crys spotted a portion of wine, little more than a mouthful, being doled out to the footmen only. This immediately brought to mind the conversation that the two captains had with the serving staff prior to lunch. A portion of alcohol with the meal, likely a treat for some performance on the plains below. There apparently was no such deal amongst the Horde, who looked on, sour-faced as their allies received more than they did from their kaldorei hosts. Angry mutters rippled up and down the Horde lines, their harsh tongue made even more bestial sounding by the short, angry words being spoken. Icy glares were all that the trolls and orcs received from the Alliance lines, with a few footmen even foolishly making a show of sipping their wine as they walked away, laughing jovially amongst themselves. Tevosh slowly rose from his seat, his body taut like a bowstring, ready to act at a moment's notice. Crys could not blame him. Hot, hungry and tired with their weapons at their waists and their former enemies just paces away things could get very bloody very quick.

Tervosh had not taken one step towards the opposite wall when a spark erupted upon tinder-dry tempers. A shove was traded between a human and an orc, and though who was the instigator wasn't clear the result was quickly made so. Bodies turned towards one another and chests puffed out while eyes narrowed, sharp tongues the first thing to be drawn.

" Mind your foot, orc! "

" You walk like careless child, pinkskin! " came the barely decipherable reply, Common clearly not the speaker's first choice of language.

" Better to walk like one than to swing a weapon like one! "



" You insult my axe arm?! " came the bellowed response, loud enough to catch everyone in the vicinity's attention.

In the span of five heartbeats the scene had gone from barely civil to almost homicidal. Tervosh practically flew forward, his hands weaving in an arcane pattern. Crys had barely made it to his feet when the archmage's spell activated, Tervosh's words sounding like a thunderclap in the confined space, magically augmented to sound as if a titan were speaking and not a man.

" Enough of this! Stay your hands and your tongues! "

The command shook the thick timbers supporting the roof, causing trails of dust and wood fragments to fall to the floor and making crockery rattle. All eyes were upon Tervosh now, who did not stop his rapid pace until he stood at the very front of the line, his eyes wide and intense. As the ringing faded from their ears the livid archmage spoke again, this time his words near human in their volume, but the tone just as fierce.

" Look at you! The best that the Alliance and the Horde could spare, gathered here to protect the lives of your comrades and you are ready to gut each other over a trickle of wine and a bumped elbow. " Tervosh snarled, ripping a wooden cup from the hand of a footman who had already received his share and was about to walk away before the commotion happened, the solider surrendering the cup easily, not wanting to become the focus of the archmage's ire. Tervosh held the cup up high showing it to all assembled. A moment later and a bright blue flame enveloped the cup, blackening the wood and consuming the liquid within easily. Within another instant the cup was reduced to flecks of ash that slowly fell to the wooden floor.

By this time the other leaders from both factions, who were apparently having some sort of meeting nearby jogged into view, their faces stern and inquisitive, seeking to know what had gone on and who was responsible. Their expressions made Crys glad he was on the other side of the room. With barely a backwards glance to note their arrival Tervosh continued speaking.

" Ashes. That is all that will be left of Ghost Walker Post. Shadowprey Village. Nijel's Point. Anything not already in the hands of the centaur will be razed to the ground, their inhabitants slaughtered or forced to work to death in their opal mines. We have one chance, _one_, to work together and cut the head from their army and scatter them. If you _cannot_, if you _will_ not work together, then you had best leave your weapons in the dust and flee right now. And when you return to your homes, you can explain to your families why you return from a battle un-bloodied and your eyes downcast, why none would stand against your foes. Because of wine and harsh words. "

Having said his piece Tervosh folded his black-garbed arms and backed away a few paces while Warlord Krosh stepped away from his officers, hands gripping the hafts of his axes tightly, eyes scouring the faces of the Horde assembled before him. A heave of his shoulders heralded his words, his voice barely above a normal speaking volume but made just as powerful by the great set of lungs bearing them.

" While I would appreciate being present while my own troops are being disciplined I find I cannot fault with his words. I am ashamed to be your commander right now, and would not be able to meet my warchief's eyes directly if he were present, your actions reflecting so poorly upon me. I have not failed my warchief yet, in any duty he set before me, were he Doomhammer or Frostwolf, and I'm not going to start now by letting our small beginnings in this land be taken by filthy, crazed horse-men. Any among you who cannot over-come your stubborn pride, I have no use for you. Leave this very night. I believe 

there's latrines or pig farms outside of Orgrimmar that need guarding. As for the rest of you, your choice to stay means I will not have to speak to you again on this matter. "

Krosh then turned abruptly and left, shouldering past his subordinate commanders as if he could no longer stomach being present. Many along the Horde lines watched their leader go with a solemn look, their pride bruised by the disdain shown to them. Some let anger smolder along their visages, dealing with the shame by growing angry instead, dark eyes flicking amongst the Alliance so near to them. The entire area was heavy with silence, only the sounds of the desert wind blowing and some muffled coughs lifting the pall slightly.

Tervosh stirred suddenly, a statue coming to life as he turned back towards the table where Crys sat, eyes lowered as if in thought. His movement shattered the hesitancy of those in the common room, the night elf servers once again bustling to get everything ready. The twin lines shuffled forward, receiving their mid-day meal with barely a nod of thanks and few words exchanged. Not a drop of wine was poured.

The archmage returned to his seat after carefully gathering up his dark robes and once again setting his eyes upon the elf, as if none of what had just happened occurred.

" You were saying something about not having enough information yet? " he prompted, picking up the thread of conversation that lay between them. Crys hesitated a moment longer, dumbfounded but then gathered his thoughts as he shuffled through the sheaves of _ga'liel_.

"Y-yes, I cannot as of right now give you a definitive choice as to Khan Hratha's appearance, but with future scrying efforts I should be able to narrow it down to within a satisfactory margin. I will also record any additional information I encounter and turn that in with my findings, should it prove important later. "

" Good, however loathe I am to repeat myself I remind you yet again of our time constraints. I hope to be able to begin a final battle plan in two days, and for that to happen I'll need your notes, " Tervosh explained, rising to his feet once again.

" My life depends on the accuracy of my intelligence gathering as much as anyone's, and I learned the hard way back on Lordaeron the results of commanders not determining an enemy's full strength before attacking, " the elf assured him, turning his gaze back to his drawings. Tervosh lingered for but a moment longer, perhaps mulling over saying more, but abruptly turned and left, leaving the warmage alone with the chilling memories of a horde of ghouls descending upon him.

Night fell, smothering the angry glow of the sun and stealing away some of the frightful heat that accompanied it. Even with the infusion of moon well energy the entirety of the day spent scrying on Spear Hold was mentally exhausting and it was shortly after dark that Crys collapsed into bed, drifting off quickly. His relief was short-lived, however, as the mental strain of the day loosened the locks he had put in place over the fears born in that distant forest, fears of making a mistake and being unable to save himself from the consequences. The elf exchanged periods of body-wide twitches and mumbled commands as he battled the endless legions of the Scourge in his mind with even longer periods of laying awake in his cot, staring blankly at the wooden beams above him, wondering if he would even see Azeroth again, let alone find his way back home.

It was during one of these moments, the elven wizard seated upon the edge of his small bed, face cradled in his hands in frustration that he heard the soft footfalls of someone ascending the ramp, Crys'annadath 

looked up to the small opening between the screens that divided off his sleeping area to see a lone night elf standing there, a second longer of study revealing it to be Baritanas, his expression inscrutable but he carried two mugs from which steam rose in wisps. The windrider gestured with his head and turned, walking out of Crys's sight, back down the ramp. Recognizing it for the invitation it was the quel'dorei sighed deeply and slipped on his boots and padded quietly down the ramp into the dimly lit common room, the night elf already having seated himself near one of the support pillars on the western side of the building. Rather than choosing to sit near one of the two entrance ways that held lamps lit with tiny orbs of blue and white light he sat deep in the shadows, only the wane light from the cloud-draped moon showing his outline and golden eyes peering out.

Weaving his way slowly amongst the tables Crys fumbled for the back rest of the chair and pulled it out with a rasp of wood on stone, dropping himself down onto it with a weary sigh. The second mug was already on his side of the round table, handle thoughtfully pointed towards him. The elven warmage looked from the mug to the hippogryph master, each equally silent. Instead of speaking Baritanas lifted his mug and took a long pull of it, holding it in his mouth for several moments and then swallowing, his breath for air afterwards like the hiss of grass rustling in the wind. Feeling awkward Crys grasped his own mug and brought it to his nose, smelling an earthy blend of herbs and a hint of sweetness that defied identification. Deciding not to hold off any longer Crys brought the mug to his lips and sipped, letting the warm drink sit on his tongue before sending it down his throat.

" Take a large sip and let the tea sit in your mouth for the span of three deep breaths. Take those breaths through your nose and think about nothing but the favor of the tea, " Baritanas said suddenly, luminescent golden eyes blinking at him, deep voice slipping through the distance between then.

Hesitating and slightly shocked by the sudden breaking of the silence Crys nevertheless did as instructed, letting the warm liquid bathe his mouth, drawing in subtle highlights of flavor through his nostrils before letting it slide down his throat, feeling it slip all the way down to his belly. The breath he took afterwards was one of relief, the edge of his worry tempered by tepid herb-infused water.

" The tea is allowed to cool so that you can hold it comfortably in your mouth and the temperature does not numb your tongue to the flavors. Holding the tea in your mouth and breathing through your nose heightens the tea's essence and three breaths gives you ample time to focus on it rather than what is troubling you, " the windrider explained in a hushed tone.

" How did you know I was troubled? " Crys asked, a slight challenge in his voice.

Baritanas responded with " You talk in your sleep. I over-heard you as I came to make myself some of this tea and decided you needed a cup too. "

The quel'dorei took a moment to examine his words, then posed another question, this one lacking the edge of suspicion. " What troubles you, then, that you need this special tea? "

A soft chuckle came from the shadowy night elf, head turning to glance up at the veiled moon, the laugh dying into a low groan as if pained.

" The tea is not special, just a blend of local plants sweetened with the juice of prickle spine agave. How it is drunk, however, is special, something I have developed over my time spent here, " came the smooth reply, eyes once again like two dim suns looking at Crys. The high elf did not press the unanswered question, instead taking another draw of tea and following the ritual, silently thankful for the odd gift that the night elf had decided to grant him.

Finally, after taking two long sips himself, Baritanas spoke again, his voice so low Crys had to strain to hear it over the faint sounds of those sleeping in the room upstairs.

" We both know that there are more than just physical scars received from battle, and I've watched the wounds that no one else can see kill men and women as surely as a lingering infection. What you saw on that other continent followed you here, to Kalimdor. And now with the specter of battle once again looming over you it comes to the fore; the doubts, the uncertainty, the knowledge that no matter how hard you want to live it simply doesn't matter some times. We've seen some of our greatest leaders and warriors fall in our lifetimes, ones we thought were invulnerable, unbeatable but in the end were only so much flesh and blood. "

" I cannot sleep some nights and seek this comforting ritual because I always fear that I am a coward, deep down in my heart where it matters. When the time comes to act, will I be able to do what is necessary? What is needed? "

Crys cocked his head upon hearing this, trying to reconcile the expression of doubts with the man whom had distracted an entire fortress of centaur by making himself a target so that the wizard could drift down into their midst unnoticed.

" Before, with the centaur… " the high elf prompted, expressing his confusion.

" I love flying, so much so I sometimes think I am one of nature's little mistakes, that I should have been born a hippogryph or a storm crow instead of in this land-bound body, " the windrider confessed, putting a large hand to his chest before continuing, " when I am flying the mount and I are almost one being, our actions working so closely together that our safety is mutual, so do not have to worry about anyone but myself. Taunting the centaur is dangerous, but only just. The hippogryphs are swift enough to avoid the arrows and spears nearing the end of their power, so there is little concern there. It is a different story entirely when the blood starts to flow and the dying begins, when blades clash and voices scream. "

" There was one battle I remember from when the Scourge was about to over-run an isolated village, a cadre of archers under a priestess of Elune, Kera Stardragon, and three riders such as myself to act as scouts and aerial support. Our foe was heavy with ghouls, the Scourge commanders looking to use the village as a base of lumbering operations, and its inhabitants as new undead conscripts in its march northwards towards Hyjal. The pace of the evacuation was frenzied, but the Scourge was faster, not having to worry about pushing their troops too hard and having them arrive to battle tired. As the villagers fled down a hunting trail the archers and huntress had no choice but to hold off the undead's advance, buying the civilians time to escape. "

Bartianas's voice wavered slightly as he spoke the next part, the time and distance between him and that day no shield for his emotions. " They were situated at the top of a hill, with a clear view of the path leading up to the village. An archer could ask for little else. Empowered by Kera's holy blessing the arrows blasted undead flesh apart where it struck, and the dead piled up three deep at the base of the hill, but they kept coming. The corpses began to drop along the slope, slowly staggering their way up nearer and nearer the archers, crawling over the lifeless bodies of their fallen like they were nothing but dead logs. We hippogryph riders dove and slashed, breaking up clusters of ghouls and tossing them away, only to have them stagger back to their feet and try again. Even when Priestess Stardragon called down the 

very stars themselves to bombard the advancing horde, it wasn't enough. Short swords were drawn, battle cries to Elune shouted to the heavens and the archers were forced to engage in melee. "

" The advantage had shifted, as the waves of ghouls quickly swarmed around the defenders, cutting off any chance of escape, any hope to do anything but die. One of the other riders was webbed by the so called crypt fiends, sent crashing to the ground and quickly set upon like a piece of meat on an anthill. I hovered there, watching bony fingers pierce and tear flesh right from the bone, saw the looks of desperation and fear in the eyes of those archers as they cast their eyes to me, screaming for deliverance. I froze. If I dove down to attack the ghouls I risked being grounded like my unfortunate companion had. I wanted more than anything I have ever wanted before to save them, to pull them away to safety, but there was only two options; stay and die, or flee and live. Any mad hope I had of swooping down and even plucking one of them and saving her from her fate was quickly dashed as the only sign of them became the sounds of their screams underneath a thrashing, decaying mass of claws and teeth. And the blood, pouring down the side of the hill in a red stream, so much I still don't believe it to this day."

" My mount was more responsible for turning us away from the carnage than I was, seeing the approach of the crypt fiends and wisely fleeing north, weaving between the trees as fast as it dared. I didn't even look to see if my fellow rider was with me, so lost in fear and horror was I. She survived, but she was never the same again. She couldn't even look at me without thinking back to all those who were killed so brutally while we hovered safely above them. The last I heard of her was that she had hung herself from a tree near the Temple of Elune in Darnassus, a prayer begging for forgiveness carved into her right arm. "

Baritanas stopped abruptly there, shuddering lightly, golden eyes staring blankly at the table as his mind was trapped back in those horrible moments. Crys was floored by the amount of raw emotion this near stranger had shared with him, even more so by how closely his experiences mirrored his own. Baritanas sat back in his chair, index finger and thumb pressing into his closed eyes while a series of shudders and light sobs escaped his throat. When he recovered enough he spoke again, his words cracked and wet with sorrow.

" I could not go back into battle. I could not face the thought of watching other die, but neither could I deny my love of flying. So I became a breeder and trainer of hippogryphs, choosing instead to focus on logistics instead of combat, for fear that if I were ever put back into that situation, I would freeze and become a hindrance to my comrades, failing them when they needed me most….like I had before. "

The grieving windrider then focused his gaze on Crys, fixing his eyes upon the quel'dorei's own.

" You feel of this too, don't you? You are a wizard, able to bring terrible magicks to the battlefield, to protect your life in ways the average soldier can only dream of, yet even that wasn't enough one day, was it? "

Crys nodded slowly, measuring his response before speaking.

" Our experiences are so similar we might as well be the same person. Fate intervened for me as well and now the two of us sit, alive, while so many others are not. Survivor's guilt, I have heard it called, and know that it affects dwarf and gnome, orc and tauren, by all who shed blood to protect what they cherish. I wanted so badly to destroy the menace that was attacking my homeland, spreading across the continent like a blight that I ignored caution and struck where it wasn't wise to do so, nearly falling in battle because of the impotent rage I felt knowing my people were dying and there was nothing I could do. For all the years I had spent perfecting my knowledge of the arcane, there was nothing I could do. "



" Now I face very nearly the same scenario. My scouting of the enemy position will either grant us victory or condemn us to death. I have seen the centaur as closely as you are to me, they are a savage and bloodthirsty foe. Many will likely die regardless of my actions, and I'm supposed to be okay with that. I want to live, to travel across the ocean again and see what remains of my home and my family after leaving them to their fate, but simply wanting to live won't guarantee it. "

" What will you do, then? " Baritanas asked quietly after listening to the other elf speak.

Crys shrugged and let a helpless smile cross his lips.

" Fight and hope to survive. I have no real choice, and I think that more than actual courage gets most men through a battle. I've already died once in the line of duty, but it didn't rob the fear of it from me, if anything it's heightened it. "

The windrider looked shocked, examining the broad pale scar long Crys's left arm when he showed it with a shake of his head.

" Right to the bone. An orcish axe? "

" Kaldorei moon glaive, " Crys replied taking a small measure of delight in the stricken look Baritanas gave him.

" One of my people killed you? "

" She was kaldorei, but any resemblance between her and you ends there, " Crys assured him with a raising of his hands.

Long minutes passed, the tea forgotten as the two slipped back into their own thoughts. Where the tea hadn't done it work yet commiserating with Baritanas had to a degree. The misgivings were there, but not feeling alone in his doubts and his fears was comforting. If one as self-assured and competent as the windrider seemed to be could be shaken by the horrors of war years afterwards then there was little shame in having similar doubts. Crys's eyelids drooped suddenly, the fatigue of the previous day's work slipping past his concerns and commandeering his attention. He rose stiffly, stretching his arms and back, observing the still seated night elf, all shadows and golden eyes.

" There was nothing you could have done. You've likely said it to yourself a thousand times since that day, but this is coming from one who had felt your pain, a stranger with no ulterior motives towards your affairs. I don't know what that's worth to you, but there it is, " the elven wizard assured him quietly.

" A lot. It's worth a lot. Thank you. I won't be able to lay those images to rest this night, or the next, but maybe this will be a start, " came the night elf's reply, his voice harsh with emotion but sincere.

" Thank you for the tea. _Ande'thoras-ethil_, " Crys replied in kind, adding a traditional darnassian farewell at the end. Baritanas's eyes widened slightly at his use of it then he nodded solemnly and turned his head to gaze at the waning full moon, peeking out from behind clouds edged in silver-white.

Slipping silently back up into his sleeping area Crys barely had the strength to kick off his boots and collapse back onto the thin mattress. Troubles, concerns, worries all clamored for his rapidly fading attention but they could quite keep up as sleep swiftly overtook him and lifted him away into a sea of endless, comforting darkness.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Crys's day began much the same way the last did, only he had no report to give to Tervosh and, reigning in his lust for mana, did not visit the moon well. Its power still coursed through him a day later, albeit with a lessened vibrancy. Sparing but a few minutes to dress and eat the elven wizard slipped away from the noisy common room of the inn and soared over miles in a matter of seconds to where a very different camp was rising with the sun. Today Crys would begin to uncover exacting details about the four pretender khans, as well as uncover which of them was the true leader of the Maraudine.

It was a frustrating task, because while Crys could see he could not hear, and from hearing gain insight into inflection and tone of the words spoken between the savage horse-men, even if he could understand their tongue. It was not a matter of catching one pretender letting slip his façade, but rather following and remembering the interactions of all four, and then piecing together who among them commanded with the most ease, the most authority. Then, around noon during his second scrying attempt, just as his powers were beginning to wane he happened upon an exchange between two of the posers. Pouring his willpower into maintaining the increasingly feeble connection to that far-away place Crys watched impatiently as they exchanged words, their retinues glancing about with a bored wariness. The edges of the elf's vision began to darken and fade, closing in like fire consuming the edges of a piece of paper. Teeth gritted and eyes clenched tightly closed the elf held on long enough to get a blurry glimpse of one of the pretend khans bow his head lightly to the other before going their separate ways, as clear an indicator as Crys could hope for of who was the superior in the relationship.

The warmage gasped for sudden breath like a diver coming to the surface after a long plunge into the ocean depths, an apt metaphor as Crys also felt as if he had been submerged in water such did the sweat cling to his skin. Blinking his eyes rapidly and keeping them focused on the floor to avoid the harsh glare of the desert sun he tried to calm his breathing, taking in a deep lungful through his nose and then releasing it from his parched mouth. With each beat of his heart a headache grew along his brow like an iron band slowly, tortuously being wound tighter, drawing a pained whine from the elf who set his palms against his temples and wondered as to the source of his current malady. It took the span of two more breaths for him to realize that it was dehydration. While scrying looked like the elf merely sitting stock still in his chair, eyes closed, it was actually a fairly demanding task. Combine that with not having drunk anything for the past two hours under a steadily increasing temperature and it was small wonder his body felt so drained. Even the soothing calm of the moon well's energy had drained away, leaving him with but a lingering flavor of it, the cold pulsing of the addiction in his gut matching cadence with his pounding headache.

Pushing aside his pain for but a moment the quel'dorei summoned water into his mug and hastily chugged it down, not caring about the rivulets that coursed down his chin and neck from his guzzling. Another mug came and went almost as fast, only towards the end, gasping like a landed fish did Crys pause, feeling the cool water slide all the way down to his stomach. It was fortunate that he had such easy access to water in this land, or he would have been in serious trouble in the coming hours. As it was he could only hope that large quantities of water and rest would stave off heat stroke. A humorless chuckle escaped his wet lips. To battle as hard as he had to get to this point, only to fall victim to the mundane elements. It was the end to as many lives as at the point of a sword, Crys was certain.

Not wanting to tax his body any more than he already had for the moment the high elf left the inn and wandered along the cliff that it occupied, looking down upon the drilling soldiers on the dusty plain below. What he saw came as a shock to his hand-shaded eyes. No longer did Horde and Alliance train and operate separately, but stood shoulder-to-shoulder as they maneuvered. Crys watched as a large contingent several hundred strong advanced rapidly, human footmen forming a defensive barrier around the orcs within. When a whistle blew the footmen stood to the side as the core of orcish warriors suddenly spilled forth from the middle like an uncorked bottle of green-skinned wrath. Crys could see the battle plan being formulated here. Let the more heavily-armored footmen absorbed the brunt of the enemy's ranged attacks and then deliver the brutal Horde warriors to the front lines untouched and at full fighting strength. Shore up the weakness of one with the strength of the other, and vice versa. The wizard hoped for all their sakes it would be enough.

Crys'annadath waited for the crowding of the mid-day meal to pass in a shady spot before heading back into the inn, the noise of hundreds of men-at-arms talking amongst themselves likely too much for his throbbing head. He ate without appetite and shuffled up to his bed, feeling bone-weary despite having risen from it only hours before. Collapsing gracelessly onto the mattress the warmage felt a wave of guilt wash over him, like he should push himself harder, that something of critical importance could be happening right now that he would miss. No, that was that sort of thinking that almost got him killed fighting the Scourge in Lordaeron. He would get tired and sloppy if he pushed himself now, exacerbating his heat exhaustion and possibly even making it impossible to scry any more in the near future.

As much as he had lived with his gift his whole life there were situations he had never encountered before that might irreparably damage his innate ability, and pushing while his body was already stressed was one of those things. Only during the war against the Scourage had he ever used it so often in a sort span of time, and he remembered how it had affected his sleeping and eating habits, the worry that something important was going on right that second and he had to be alert for what it might be. It was pointless to consider it any longer, at any rate. Crys took one last look at the wooden beams above him and forced his eyes to close, wishing that banishing his concerns could be just as easily done.

When Crys rose, the sun was starting to dip beneath the horizon, a great orb of brilliant red veiled by the rising curtain of heat left in its wake. It was hot still, and would be for some time yet, but the elf felt much better than he had previously, enough to continue his critical work. The thought of going down to the moon well crossed his mind several times, but he managed to convince himself his time would be better served scrying without its aid. He would not always have the reserve to fall back on, and indeed his thoughts began to turn bitter and selfish as he thought of one day soon having to leave that precious wellspring of mana behind, likely forever. There would be few, if any night elves in Azeroth, far too few to be worth constructing a moon well over there.

Tromping down the wooden ramp that lead up to the sleeping area Crys'annadath could smell supper cooking and watch as the kaldorei cooks and servants went about their frenzied task of feeding so many soldiers but he hungered only for the knowledge that he sought. His other appetites would wait until then. Seating himself comfortably at his usual table he closed his eyes and left the inn far behind once again, flying swifter than hippogryph wings to the west to hunt for the one centaur against whom he would deliver the collective wrath of the Horde and the Alliance.

Crys's eyes opened suddenly, wincing slightly even in the dim light cast by the scattering of wisp lamps. A tired yet satisfied smile pulled at the corners of the elf's lips and he released a great exhalation of air, slouching in his chair and rubbing his eyes to try and banish the spots that danced before him. Picking up one of his sketches he held it up, letting the wane light illuminate the roughly sketched centaur on its surface. " I have you, " Crys said to the drawing. Today had been the day for breakthroughs, and it couldn't have come any sooner.

The next few hours were spent drawing on the finer vellum he had brought with him from Theramore, taking what he had committed to both memory and the papers beside him and rendering Khan Hratha in vivid detail, sating hunger and thirst while he worked with conjured bread and water. It was like the times he sat in his tower, trying to revive both body and skill, sketching into the wee hours of the night to regain what he had lost, except this was no fanciful project; this had purpose, this was a page in the book that was his life about to turn, leading to one fresh, clean and full of promise. All that was needed to was to kill the beast whose image his soot-stained fingers had crafted.

" Here he is, " Crys announced the next morning, pinning his finished sketch to a display board set up for just such a purpose and then stepping aside. A dozen pairs of eyes of various hues and sizes immediately flicked to gaze upon his completed sketch, beards stroked and heads tilted as the details were taken in. The elven wizard noted the slightest of nods from Tervosh as a compliment for the detail of the drawing, the archmage's eyes then scanning the assembled military leaders for their reactions.

" And you will of course please tell us how you determined this centaur in particular was Khan Hratha, " Strongshield interjected during the ensuing silence, his expression wavering between a challenge and amusement, no doubt happy to repay the elf in kind for the impromptu question the paladin had been forced to field days before in front of the assembled troops of both Horde and Alliance. Crys'annadath hid well the brief flicker of irritation that passed through his mind, having expected such a question, and indeed he was eager to explain his process.

" A very fair question, Sir Strongshield. Candor and all that, " the warmage began, making sure the paladin knew he had caught the hidden message. " First off, I have served in the armies of Quel'thalas, Dalaran and Theramore using my scrying gift as a tool for their benefit, and have amassed an impressive number of hours spent using it to find and identify military targets. Second, the doubles were meant to confuse more conventional scouts who would only be privy to one area of the valley at a time and at a fair distance, while I was able be as close to them as I am to you and study them at great length without fear of discovery. "

" As for the khan himself, he has a number of distinguishing behaviors and marks that define him as distinct and different from the mere poseurs. His armor is a mixture of plate armor and horse barding, no doubt spoils stripped from the body of a knight and his steed and all are of fine quality. The sword he wields, likely obtained from the same source, is an unusual weapon for a centaur to carry, leading me to believe it is powerful enough not to be trusted in the hands of any one less than their supreme leader. All the fake khans carry bows and spears that, while of superior manufacture from their peers, are typical armaments for their race. Also, on several occasions I had observed an interaction between two of these khans and during every one of them the other centaur bowed their heads after speaking with the one I have depicted here, showing them to be inferior in rank. Does that assuage any of the concerns you have? " Crys asked finally, posing the question to Edward but looking over all those assembled, trying to keep his lip from curling in disgust as his eyes passed over the two trolls present.

The expressions ranged from thoughtful to suspicious, and there was little Crys thought he could do to placate them any more than he had. He understood, from an outsider's standpoint, how it would be hard to take a stranger from a different faction's word on information when your life was on the line. But that's what they all will be doing.

" Much rides on this information you provide, sorcerer. Your leaders place great responsibility on your shoulders and faith in your abilities. I can only hope that it is your skill that does not come up lacking as there is more than just our own lives at stake here, " the Horde warleader Krosh stated after conferring briefly with Calga and Mune, the former two's faces set and hard.

Crys wasn't given a chance to respond, Tervosh instead taking that responsibility as he moved to the fore to stand on the opposite of the board from the quel'dorei spellcaster.

" Magus Skychaser was hand-picked from among numerous qualified personnel and his record speaks for itself. If he believes that this is our target, I put the full support of the Alliance forces behind it, " the archmage declared, hands clasped behind his back and head tilted back slightly, as if daring any to refute his position. Krosh, for one, did not, though there were a few head shakes and crossed arms among those of the Horde delegation.

" It is settled then, " the large orc rumbled, " and not a day too soon. We leave tomorrow and still have much to prepare and plan for. "

The focus off of Crys'annadath felt some of the tension leave his shoulders and jaw, feeling as if he had just passed an exam of some sort. Perhaps he had. About to exit to allow the assembled leaders to their discussion Tervosh stopped him with a touch on his shoulder.

" Stay, I want you to be a part of this. You will play a significant part in our attack as well, I think. Just…mind your questions, " the archmage added with a twitch of a smile. The elf acquiesced with a nod, taking a seat near the gathering and preparing for a long debate.

Crys stifled a yawn behind his hand and once again felt the urge to rise from his seat and stretch his back. It was evening, the sun prematurely darkened by the arrival of storm clouds coming in off the sea, turning the waters below the same churning, murky grey that they were. Thunder echoed off the mountains, seeming to roll across the distance like a physical thing, an invisible titan dragging its knuckles across the land as it passed. Despite the gloomy atmosphere, the storm seemed to hearten the Horde delegates.

" Rain will dampen the soil and conceal the dust our column will raise when we march tomorrow. The spirits give us aid in our eradication of this menace, " Calga said with a solemn nod, eliciting like gestures from those around her. Crys felt like pointing out that the rain had been on its way to the coast for days and had nothing to do with the will of spirits, but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. A tiny, helpless shrug was all Tervosh offered in agreeing to the warmage's skepticism. It had taken all day, but they had finally agreed upon a strategy, Crys'annadath finding himself surprised and more than a little worried upon finding out what his role would be. It would test him in every way possible and the risk would be as great as the reward, but he had accepted it the moment it was offered to him with a steeled will and clenched teeth. He would prove his worth to them all.

After eating his dinner Crys once again found himself standing atop the cliff overlooking the dusty plain the two armies had camped out on, watching the dark shapes of the troops go about their evening routines of eating, talking and gambling. Their words were little more than a rough murmur even to Crys's sharp hearing, occasionally punctuated with a sharp bark of a laugh or a shouted order. After days of laboring with a deadline over his head the elven wizard now found he had nothing but time on his hands. Tomorrow they would march, and a day after that they would attack. The ships bound for Azeroth would leave the morning afterwards. So many events that were so important to his future happening in such rapid succession. His eyes strayed over to the beautiful glow of the moonwell, its soft luminescence painting the nearby trees a frosty blue-white. The wondrous energy it offered would be the hardest thing to leave behind on this continent, as he would not encounter the like in the old world. Trying to put the seductive lure of the energy from his mind Crys'annadath forced his eyes upwards, to what stars could be seen against the thickening cloud cover. The constellations that he remembered during his nights stargazing as a youth wouldn't be there, even if he could have seen the sky clearly, reinforcing his sense that he didn't belong here, that he would ever be a stranger to this hot, hostile land. He was sick of kaldorei prejudice, the stench of Theramore harbor wafting up through his bedroom window, of palm trees and centaurs.

It was time to go home, to whatever was left of it.

Casting his eyes downward with a sigh Crys wheeled about and strolled slowly back to the inn. Perhaps some of Baritanas's tea would help calm his thoughts enough to turn in early. He would need all the strength and wits he could muster to survive the coming days.

Crys tugged the buckle closed on his sword belt, sighing at how comfortable he had become packing up and leaving places for the last time. Setting his cloak over his shoulders the elf paused as the roiling black clouds overhead rumbled once again, the deep growl that had been threatening rain all morning. The wizard wished for his elven marine cloak still sitting back at in his chambers in Theramore, but a more frivolous use of a teleport spell he could scarcely think of. He would survive a little rain, and with so many of the other races marching beside him he was determined not let them think of elves as the weakest link.

The kitchen and common room below was a flurry of activity, night elf servers hastily packing last minute rations as well as preparing the morning meal, soldiers of both factions weaving around people and furniture alike in an effort to perform their duties. It was the same with every war camp Crys had been a part of. No matter how much prior warning there was or well-disciplined the army was there would always be stragglers, just-remembered necessities and contradictory orders. The elven wizard avoided most of the tangle by sticking to the side and ducking out as soon as he was able. His efforts to avoid the crush of people sent him towards the wind rider's area, where Baritanas fastened a bridle around Blackcloud's head while talking with a pair of kaldorei who waited by the other two hippogryphs. The wind rider caught Crys's eye as he walked up, the gaze of the other two night elves was significantly less inviting.

" Remember to keep no higher than one hundred feet with this storm over our heads and if things become too hectic or dangerous get to somewhere safe as quickly as you are able. There will be enough death over the next few days that we don't need to add to it with a rider or hippogryph trying to be a hero. Remember your training, follow your instincts, trust your partner, " he instructed finally.

" _Tor ilisar'thera'nal!_" the kaldorei echoed as one, bowing their heads to Baritanas and taking up the reins of their respective hippogryphs. Mounting the elegant beasts it took nothing more than a flick of the reins and a cluck to urge the flying mounts forward, leaping off the cliff face and spreading their great dark wings. Baritanas watched them go, a ghost of a smile on his face.

" Remembering your first time? " Crys guessed. The other nodded slowly before speaking in a far-away voice.

" It all seems so exciting when you're their age. The power of the beast beneath you, the feeling of pride in doing something to help your people, the wind rushing past your ears…it's _seductive_ to the young mind. I probably seem like a worrisome old man to them for reminding them to be careful so many times. "

Crys chuckled.

" Try setting a straw target on fire by willing it and then having a two millennium old archmage admonish you for not keeping the blast radius tight enough. The young always see the potential for success, the old the potential for failure it seems. "

" Then let us hope we are not both so old that we cannot see a positive ending to this, " the wind rider responded.

" A tale we'll be telling our grandchildren, about a time when a civil farewell between a Quel'dorei and a night elf was a rare thing. Good luck and farewell, Master Skyriver, if we don't meet again after this, " Crys'annadath said, offering his hand to the kaldorei. Baritanas returned the handshake firmly, meeting his gaze with a look of genuine warmth upon his face.

" And to you, Magus Skychaser. If we meet again may be as friends visiting and not soldiers mustering. "

Moments later Baritanas was airborne, Crys watching him go for a few moments before striding away to the plain where the war host was gathered, each hoping that the impossible combination of Horde and Alliance, night elf and high elf working together was a sign of a brighter future for them all.

Several hours of trudging through the wastes, the grey dust caking Crys's boots and the back of his throat the rain finally came, seeming to be ripped from the bosom by a particularly loud peal of thunder. The columns of men barely paused before resuming their march, large, warm drops of water pinging off metal, thudding off of flesh and earth. Gusts of wind allowed the water to slap into Crys's face occasionally, the cowl of his cloak no defense, as if mocking his attempts to remain dry. In half an hour it was moot what pains any of them took to remain dry, each soaked to the bone, the ash-like soil turned into a gluey mud that sucked and slopped with each pace, which, combined over some five hundred troops, sounded like the feeding frenzy of some disgusting, toothless creatures. There was little talk, and what there was consisted mostly about the pounds of muck now clinging to all their feet and how choice members of both factions could have stood to been under some warm water weeks ago.

The elven warmage glanced around from time to time, half out of boredom, the other half out of genuine wariness. It would be hard to sneak up on this many eyes, but another pair never hurt. The local wildlife had sought shelter where it could, basilisks slithering under rocky overhangs to watch the world around them with their strange blue eyes; vultures gathering in flocks on what few wind-ravaged trees had grown, flapping ragged, ebon wings and ruffling feathers in a futile effort to remain dry. At one point the quel'dorei noted a pack of hyenas, standing some five feet at the shoulder walk along a nearby ridge, eyeing the column of warriors for signs of weakness or slowing like they would a herd of any animal wandering the plains. Crys had no illusions that if he traveled alone or with only few companions the hyenas, eight strong, would be circling to attack. Not liking their odds the large canines just sniffed the ground disinterestedly and wandered off to the north, looking for easier prey.

The land as cracked and dry as it was meant that it was like the rain was hitting stone, flowing down through dry channels and beds left from the last great deluge. Most of them could be hopped over, or even waded through, but one such water flow slowed the column to a crawl as soldiers leapt from one side to the other, the rain collecting together to form a creek of some force and speed. Tossing his hood back to clear his field of vision when his turn came up Crys set his jaw and ran as fast as the mucky ground would allow him too. The mud stole some momentum from his jump, but he cleared the water easily…only to have the far bank, already weakened by dozens of impacts and the rush of water to give way from under his feet. Clods of earth and dark water rushed over his head, his panicked gasp for breath before going under barely able to see him through the initial few seconds. Clamping his eyes shut the world around him was swallowed up by the roar and gurgle of flowing water, his hands instinctively seeking something to grab a hold of but finding no purchase, that was, until he happened across something thick as a young tree and covered in hair.

As chaotic as the world around his was right now Crys still had the presence of mind to realize that while he was under water he was not tumbling along with the flow. A second later he felt his head lifted clear of the current, followed by the rest of him with a sudden burst of strength, leaving him in a sodden pile in the mud, coughing so hard his lungs hurt. Blinking against the wet soil on his face and the rain still pouring down around him the dark shapes resolved themselves into the concerned faces of Alliance footmen, parting when the face of the paladin Strongshield arrived.

" You gave us a hell of a scare, Magus Skychaser. That current would have carried you a mile away in as long as it took to say it, and probably drowned you or broken your bones along the way for good measure. Are you hurt? "

Crys took several moments to find the wherewithal to speak, wiping vigorously at the mud on his face with his sleeve.

" No, I-I'm fine. Nothing broken but I'll be tasting dirt for the rest of the day I'm sure. "

" Get him to his feet, " Edward ordered, hands reaching down and hauling the sodden wizard to his feet and holding him there while he regained his balance. All around troops looked on with varying degrees of concern while those who had yet to cross scouted along the far bank for a less hazardous place to cross.

" The mage, he is alright? " a voice as deep as thunder asked from Crys's left, prompting him to turn his head around to gaze at the tauren Mune Greysky, in the process of cleaning smears of mud from the equally grey fur along his forearm.

" Yes, Shaman Greysky, thanks to your quick intervention, " Edward affirmed with a nod, looking between the elf and the tauren. Crys'annadath too, looked to the bull-man, bowing his head in thanks.

" You are welcome, Skychaser of the Alliance. You have yet a role to play and a task to perform, one that the spirits who guided my hand know well. Honor their mercy by executing it successfully when the time comes, " the shaman returned, dark eyes meeting his own. Again, Crys could only nod, still grappling with shock and too grateful to point out that it was spirits who had supposedly sent the rain which endangered his life in the first place; or that the tauren could have just as easily missed and grabbed nothing but water.

The next four hours passed unremarkably, the rain washing away most of the mud from Crys's clothing and hair but leaving him feeling uncomfortable and irritable, his feet squelching inside his boots with each step and hair slicked to his scalp like a clammy hand gripping him lightly. They took two rest breaks during their march, though with nothing to sit on and little to do but complain about the weather and eat their cold rations standing up they were more of a frustration than a relief to many. Baritanas and his aerial scouts had departed sometime around the second rest period swooping down out of the grey heavens, looking as wet and miserable as the rest of them as they landed a delivered their report before winging their way ahead to Ghost Walker Post. Nothing was out on the plains but kodo lumbering their way determinedly through the rain storm. The war host was safe from discovery at least for the time being.

After nearly nine hours of marching the faint lights of Ghost Walker Post came into view, wane beacons of warm yellow amongst the miserable charcoal of the night-darkened clouds. The promise of a warm meal and to get out of the rain for at least a couple of hours hastened the pace for many. Ghost Walker was little more than several raised mesas connected by suspension bridges, steep slopes acted like walls to keep out hostile wildlife with only a few earthen ramps giving access to the small collection of buildings on top. Sentries guarding said ramp, looking as sodden and unhappy as the new arrivals, ushered them all up while sending a runner to notify the outpost leaders. Once Axehand and Strongshield had exchanged brief pleasantries with an orc Crys's sharp elven ears overheard was named Felgur Twocuts the weather-beaten and road-weary soldiers trudged up the ramp towards the meeting lodge.

Inside a large fire burned in the center of the floor, the smoke permitted to escape though a hole in the roof. Barely able to hold a third their number the soldiers were instead allowed in a certain number at a time while the rest set up camp on whatever ground was available and try and dry off. Crys ate perched on a footstool with his meal of fish stew in a salty broth and a slice of grainy Mulgore spice bread on his lap, torso curled over it like a miser hiding his wealth from prying eyes. The elf earned a few nods of thanks from those seated around him as he conjured up a few loaves of rye and doled them out to supplement their meal. Crys'annadath had barely supped the last of the broth from the wooden bowl before the next line of soldiers was forming and would need to sit. Frowning at having to return to the storm outside when he was just beginning to dry off he stood with a sigh of resignation and handed his empty bowl and wooden spoon back to a female orc kitchen worker who was gathering them up. A loud clearing of a throat caught the elf's attention before he could go much farther, however, and he pivoted his head around to spy Tervosh seated at a table crowded with some of the other officers. Walking over Tervosh slid over as much as the short bench allowed and the elven warmage perched himself on the edge.

" You've had a rough enough day as it stands already. We need you in top form tomorrow, " the archmage explained, taking a pull from the clay mug before him.

" I'll take what I can get, " Crys grunted in response, settling himself as best he could.

The rest of the evening was short and uneventful, the officers both factions talking amongst themselves, choosing to speak in their native tongues when they didn't want anyone listening in. Crys and Tervosh were content to listen quietly to Thunderbore, smoking a pipe and sending clouds of blue smoke into the air and Harlowe speak of the various commanders they had served under in their years in the military and particularly entertaining new recruits that had crossed their paths. Crys could tell they would have been trading war stories with any other company present, but considering it was the very orcs seated at the table they had fought against it would have been in poor taste at best. Tervosh was the first to leave, rising and reminding those present that they would have an early morning tomorrow and all should get what sleep they could. The plan had originally been to attack when the sun had begun its ascent into the sky so that its light would be in the eyes of the centaur archers, but considering the weather this was unlikely.

" We shall work with what the spirits deem fit to give us, " Mune rumbled as he rose, fists upon the table top, drawing a nod of agreement from them all.

Crys was never fond of hammocks, they moved too much with each shift of his body, there was an ever-present fear of falling out, and it curled his spine uncomfortably. Still, the exercise and stress of the previous day made short work of these discomforts and the lights and sounds of the great hall were soon muted and then taken away altogether by sleep's blanketing hand.

They were awoken in the early hours of the morning, a cup of hot yet weak tea thrust into Crys's hands as the commanders roused themselves and clad themselves in armor. Outside, the rain had faded to a drenching mist, earth and sky both looking as grey, cold and inhospitable as the other. The elf tugged on his mud-caked boots, wondering not for the first time why they were fighting for this land. The tea barely downed with a few chunks of conjured rye bread Crys and the war host was on the move again, his dry cloak quickly succumbing to the rain and a string of silent curses aimed at the spirits who had so thoughtfully provided the rain for them.

Not far past the buttes that made up Ghost Walker Post, however, the columns came to a halt on the edge of a broad canyon. Within, stark white and ghostly against the early morning sky and dark mud they rested in were the bones of hundreds of great beasts. Every bone Crys could think of and more besides jutted out of the earth at all angles, the massive, broad-topped skulls with their blunt horns and flat teeth quickly told the elf these were kodo bones.

At the lead the warmage observed both Mune and Calga move to the very front of the troops. The tauren first stooped to plant a small wooden totem into the soft ground and then the two of them began to chant, arms moving in the same rhythmic patterns, the deep bass and higher-pitched growl of the two weaving together to form one complete song. The soldiers shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot, quietly muttering theories and complaints amongst themselves while the strange ceremony continued. At last the totem at Mune's feet flared a bright blue, a rumbling bellow like that made by a beast accompanying the flash. Seeming to be satisfied Mune retrieved the totem and tucked it under his belt once more, turning to face the assembled troops.

" We have asked the guardian spirits of this graveyard to grant us passage though, and they have agreed. Disturb the bones of those that rest here and incur their wrath. This will be your only warning, " the tauren cautioned.

" And in case any of you think this is a joke at your expense, then let me say if I catch any not heeding the warning they will answer to my axes instead. This route cuts half-a-day's travel off of our march and shields us from centaur patrols and I will _not_ repay this boon with desecration, is this understood?! " Krosh roared, looking hard at both Horde and Alliance soldier alike. With a nod Blood Guard Redpaw and his wolf riders wheeled about and headed northward. They would be forced to go the long way around, their dire wolves far too large and unwieldy to maneuver through the densely packed field. Their speed, however, would allow them to reach the other side roughly the same time as the rest of the column.

With the slow, measured pace of a funeral procession the war host filtered down into the maze of bones, the sarcastic chatter markedly absent with the dual threats hovering over the soldier's heads. With nothing but the rattle and clink of metal armor and weapons, the squelching of muddy boots and water drops falling into pools of water the bone yard seemed even more menacing, like they had become field mice creeping through the lair of some great predator's feeding pit. Crys ducked and wove his way along as the jutting bones dictated, not certain in exactly what form the guardian spirits would wreak their vengeance but in no particular hurry to find out.

While guarded by spirits the graveyard was not exempt from the usual processes that nature had at its disposal. The fresher corpses of great kodo lay where they had breathed their last, great black vultures alternatively tearing chunks of rotting meat off of the carcasses and ruffling their feathers against the rain, each eyeing the column of troops warily with beady, calculating eyes. Hyenas feasted on the mound of entrails ripped from the belly of one over-turned beast, gore-spattered teeth bared in a challenge. Crys was only too glad to leave the sounds of their growls and tearing flesh behind.

After what seemed like hours the other side of the canyon finally came into view between the bleached bones ahead, the war host breathing a collective sigh of relief that they would be leaving this pit of silent decay behind them. This sense of relief was shattered suddenly as a orc grunt, jostled by those behind him eager to be free of the bone yard slipped in the mud, his arms gyrating wildly as he tried to right himself. Instinct took hold, his hand reaching out for something to stop his fall and it came to rest on the crumbling rib of a long dead kodo. Bone crumbled under the orc's grip, hundreds of soldiers holding their breath, those nearest to him recoiling as if he were plagued. The unlucky grunt sat still as a statue, clinging to an absurd hope that remaining motionless would confuse the spirits of the graveyard. Tense moments passed, but nothing revealed itself from out of the jumbled bones.

Finally deciding he had been spared the orc picked himself up and wiped the mud from himself as best he could. Offering a relieved smile and a shrug to his comrades he took one pace forward when a great rumbling suddenly shook the area, something deep and old and angry. Again, all eyes turned to the grunt, frozen in mid-step. The rumbling continued, quickly shifting into an enraged bellow and the thundering footfalls of some elephantine beast. Eyes wide in fear the orc suddenly reached out his hands to his brothers-in-arms, but none reached back. In a blink the spirit was upon him, a translucent kodo glowing an eerie blue thundered out of nothingness, rage in its normally placid eyes. Ghostly jaws yawned wide and clamped around the torso of the grunt, who howled in as much terror as pain. Thrashing in the thing's jaws like a small fish in the beak of a gull the orc was pulled violently backwards, slipping in amongst the exposed bones and out of sight. There was a series of wet crunches in the gloom, the orc's screams becoming fainter and then suddenly stopped with a choking gurgle, another set of bones to be picked upon by the scavengers.

" Move, damn you! " Krosh hissed urgently to the rest of them, the next few minutes giving witness to the swiftest and quietest evacuation Crys had ever witnessed. Breathless and his heart pounding so hard in his chest it felt as if it resided in his throat the elf gave one last look back towards the graveyard before turning his gaze and feet westward.

The war host took one final break an hour later, hunkered down behind a shallow cliff, giving the troops a chance to shake off what they had witnessed in the graveyard and a chance for the recently arrived wolf riders to catch up and rest their mounts. The air was tense, each knowing that the enemy was not two miles from them at this point. The rain had finally petered off, the clouds breaking up enough to emit some of the morning light through. Crys began to understand why they were attacking in the morning, the enemy possessing many archers and they would have had the light in their eyes while the war host attacked, hindering their shots. A pity the weather had had other ideas.

After too short a time the orders to move out rippled along the ranks, Crys'annadath knowing that soon his part in the coming battle would be at hand. The column of soldiers marched out, no longer any caution or doubt in their stride, eager to be done with it. Baritanas and his wing riders, recovered from last night's storm, let out one screech of greeting as they flew past, scouting the terrain ahead. Spearhold looked far more intimidating from this distance, Crys remarked to himself, having only seen portions of it in the darkness. It loomed above them even at this distance, a deadly maze of wooden towers and switch-backing canyons filled with murderous horse-men. Crys gripped the handle of his sword and set his jaw. He would see this through to the end. He had to.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

One mile to go. Baritanas and his fellow wind riders circled on high, watching the frustrated centaur below send spear and arrow their way but not even coming close to striking them. An order, loud and indecipherable over the rattle and clank of armor, the dull thud of hundreds of footfalls came from the front, echoed several times. Instantly the column of orc and human, dwarf and troll began to run, weapons drawn in a flurry of motion as the soldiers spread out from one another slightly to make room for their longer strides. Just as they had practiced the human footmen had arranged themselves on the outside of the column, broad shields raised high, sheltering the lightly-armored grunts and spear-throwers within. Redpaw and his riders flanked the column for half the distance and then with a burst of speed charged ahead to be the first to engage the initial line of defense.

A force of this size would have had trouble hiding in dense forest, let alone a broad, flat plain and they were spotted easily by the centaur manning the picket walls at the bottom of a sloped canyon. No fewer than three dozen archers notched their arrows and pointed them skyward, ready to release a deadly rain of steel. Nearly as one they released, their target the swift-moving wolf riders. Weaving on their path towards the barricade allowed them to dodge most of the arrows, one of their number tumbling to a sudden stop as the volley struck home, killing both mount and rider. Dozens more yards swiftly passed under the wolves' paws as the centaur drew back their bows a second time. Perhaps it was the spirits finally deciding to intervene, or just sheer dumb luck but at that moment the morning sun peaked out from behind the stormy clouds, sending its brilliant yellow light into the focused eyes of the centaur archers. It lasted but the span of two breaths but it was enough to send the volley off-target, Redpaw and his raiders losing no more of their number. There was no time for a third volley, the centaur dropping their bows as the wolf riders slammed into the defenses, their massive curved blades hacking apart the flimsy wooden defenses and any centaur unlucky enough to get within range.

After a short, brutal exchange the wolf riders stood over the hewn corpses of most of the centaur guards, the rest having fled to warn the rest of the fortress. One small victory at a time, that was how this battle over such a large area would be won. The raiders tarried only long enough for the rest of the force to arrive at the destroyed gate before trotting ahead. Crys felt the bile rise in his throat as he stepped clumsily over the bodies of the slaughtered guards. It seemed like a lifetime ago he had smelt this much blood at once.

From overhead a wind rider swooped low, hippogryph hovering just long enough for the rider to deliver his message.

" Large column of centaur spearmen coming in from the north, probably looking to take the large open area 300 yards to your right. "

Digesting the information quickly Krosh yelled out to the wolf riders.

" Redpaw! Take your raiders and block the canyon until reinforcements arrive, the rest of you keep pushing forward! "

The lead raider acknowledged the order with a wave before kicking his dire wolf into a run, the rest forming up behind him.

The warband, peppered with shots from a yet unorganized centaur resistance which inflicted only minor wounds snaked their way along the ravines deeper into enemy territory, finally arriving at the crossroads mentioned by the wind rider scout. A small band of roughly a dozen centaur had come in from a smaller canyon and were harassing the wolf riders from both sides , two more of their number already dead. Without a moment's hesitation Krosh, Mune and Edward, moving at the head of the force charged, felling four of the horsemen before they even knew they were under attack, the tauren's great halberd carving gashes as long as Crys was tall in the unarmored flanks of the Maraudine guards. Still, Redpaw's wolves were being pushed back by the combined strength and savagery of the large column of spearmen ahead of them.

" Crys, to me! " Tervosh yelled to him, the elf scrambling to catch up as the two mages ran to provide support.

Skidding to a stop the archmage's hands had already began to weave a spell, speaking to the quel'dorei wizard quickly to avoid ruining his own casting.

" I'm laying down a blizzard forty feet back from the centaur front line. Let it hit and then strike with your own just ahead of the wolf riders. Mind our men! " Tervosh reminded him.

Seconds later chunks of ice several pounds in size began to cascade from thin air above the massed centaurs, the edges magically honed to a jagged, cutting edge. The effect was instant and stomach-turning, what was essentially frozen knives falling down upon tightly packed troops. Panicked by the pained screams of their comrades behind them the centaurs pushed forward in a surge, rearing up and slamming into the canyon walls. Lips pressed into a thin line Crys unleashed his own spell, the trapped centaur suddenly having nowhere to run as more ice fell. Blood began to course out from the mouth of the ravine, flowing in a gruesome river between the legs of the dire wolves. His spell had just ended before Tervosh began another, a flaming column striking the canyon next, killing the wounded and creating a mound of crumpled, bloody bodies no force would be able to pass over until it was cleared.

Glad for the respite Redpaw and his riders pulled back from the mouth of the canyon, riders and mounts spattered with their own blood and that of their enemies. The rest of the warband had filed in behind now, repositioning for the strike westward, footmen with their broad shields at the fore.

" Leave a cadre of troll spear throwers for support while the raiders gather their strength and then have them follow the main force up behind, " Krosh bellowed over the din created by centaur cries of alarm and hundreds of men tromping into position, his twin axes dripping and a bloodthirsty grin on his face. " Now, " he said, sweeping his gaze over the other commanders,

" let's push towards the main encampment and show them our might! _Lok'tar agar_! "

The push forward was harrowing to say the least. Blind turns and a more organized centaur resistance slowed their momentum. Horseman lancers supported by archers behind alternatively charged and fell back with enviable discipline, and not even the thickest shield could keep Crys from having to step over the fallen bodies of Alliance footmen on their way up. Dwarven riflemen stalked along the sides of the canyon, pausing to trade fire with centaur bowmen, taking cover behind fellow dwarves with wooden shields as wide as the dwarves themselves while they

did so.

" How much farther? " Tervosh asked Crys'annadath as the two moved side-by-side, struggling to avoid colliding with the column of heavily armored soldiers beside them.

" Half-a-mile as the crow flies, but switch-backs and inclines will double that for us, plus we're encountering a lot of resistance now, " the wizard replied.

" Hmm, " Tervosh grunted in acknowledgement, " but coming this far must have caught his attention by now. We have but to have someone identify him and we can enact the final phase of our plan, " he explained, referring to the khan they had come to slay. Crys nodded then cast his eyes skyward as a hippogryph shriek sounded. Baritanas swooped down towards them, Crys feeling a sudden pang of concern as he noted two arrows sticking out from Onyxwing's right flank and one from Baritanas's side below the ribs.

" He's out! He's at the core of their base behind ranks of centaur. I'm pulling my riders out, there's too many archers now for us to remain effective, " the night elf yelled, the pain he was in clear on his face and in his voice.

" Understood and well done! Get back to Ghost Walker and tend to your wounds, " Tervosh shouted back, waving him off. Nodding and saluting weakly Baritanas urged his mount forward and the pair flew off to the east, soon joined by their comrades.

" We have him now, " the archmage stated with an uncharacteristically fierce grin.

Rallied by their commander having joined the fray the Maraudine had practically brought the battle to a stand-still, every step now contested with long spears battering against shield and arrows arcing overhead. Ahead, a strong-looking palisade barrier with sharpened stakes angled out from the base offered yet another barrier to their progress, one which threatened to stop them dead.

" Orcs! Prepare to charge! " Krosh roared, batting an incoming spear aside with the flat of an axe blade, " shamans! Get rid of that barrier! "

Plodding a few more desperate paces ahead the exhausted footmen paused, projectiles still raining down upon them, seeking unprotected flesh to pierce. Crys caught glimpses of Mune and Calga chanting with their eyes closed, seeming to be unaware of the chaos around them. After what seemed like minutes the two finally broke out of their trance with a final, shouted word and thrusting their arms forward violently. Bright, verdant energy burst from their rigid forms, stirring the dust around their feet like a gust of wind and making Crys's ears pop from a sudden change of pressure. The end result was spectacular, the very earth around the barricade ahead exploding upwards in a cloud of sand and dirt, sending large splinters of wood skyward and back, cutting into the centaur defenders and blinding them at the same time. Another wordless shout from Krosh and the ranks of the footmen parted, orcs longing to bury their axes in the flesh of their enemies eagerly charging the disoriented horsemen ranks.

Their momentum was impossible for the centaur to stop, the same killing rage that had made the orcs such fearsome opponents during the previous wars brought to the fore again, destroying all resistance and attempts to rally. Dwarven riflemen and troll spearthrowers sent their deadly payload into the panicked crush of centaur defenders, sending many of the savage horsemen to the blood-soaked ground, thrashing and screaming.

Recovered from their earlier engagement Redpaw and his wolf riders charged in next, black wolf nails scrabbling over sun-baked rock as the dwarves hastened to bet out of their way. The raiders leapt from the canyon walls and into the fray, steel and teeth cutting a bloody swath through the centaur's flanks. Crys had little choice but to follow the push of the crowd, finding a clear target amongst the dusty confusion and sending white darts of magical energy into the torso of a rearing centaur, sending him tumbling awkwardly back. Fire erupted in several places as well, causing the smell of burning hair to wash over the area like a wave, Tervosh's doing.

Still seeking a place where he could do the most good Crys'annadath noted Edward just behind the front lines, pausing to kneel and lay a hand upon those who lay upon the ground, wounded and groaning in pain. Golden energy leapt from the paladin's hand, washing over the fallen soldiers, who then stiffly sat up, marveling at the power of the Light that Edward wielded as the holy knight continued on his way forward. Emboldened they once again picked up sword and shield and re-joined the fight, their wills as renewed as their bodies.

" Do you see him yet? " the archmage asked loudly, suddenly beside the elf and holding onto his shoulder to gain his attention. Crys's eyes scoured the confusing jumble of bodies and bloodied blades but did not see the khan amongst them.

There was a sudden surge in the tide of flesh before them, a column of centaur suddenly shattering the orc ranks and punching through, one of the false khans at its head, gory spear leading the way towards where Edward tended to yet another fallen warrior. The warmage's cry of warning was barely audible amongst the cacophony of battle around them but through sharp hearing or some otherworldly sense the paladin heard him nevertheless, noticing the danger just in time to bring his shield up. The metal spear-point struck with all the considerable power a charging horse could muster, sending Edward sprawling back to land prone, his shield torn from his arm and winded from the sheer force. His armored retinue holding off attackers the false khan reared up, front legs kicking, spear held in both hands for a lethal downward thrust on the felled paladin.

The warmage sent a sudden burst of fire at the rearing horseman while Tervosh sent a barrage of arcane darts, both reaching the centaur's flank as the spear point descended…before deflecting harmlessly off of a shimmer golden field that sprang up around the fallen knight. Surprise and pain twisted the false kahn's face as he staggered sideways under the magical attack, flesh punctured and burnt along his flank. Preparing another quick spell Crys didn't have time to unleash it as a large furry shape plowed into the centaur from the other side, Redpaw and his dire wolf knocking the false khan onto his injured side. The spear jabbed awkwardly skyward, trying to fend off the wolf's snapping jaws while Redpaw vaulted off his mount's back and over its head, landing on the other side of the prone centaur. The pinned horseman's legs desperately kicking to get free both orc and wolf fell upon him with equally savage abandon, the claws and teeth of both tearing, gouging and rending in a gory display that made Crys's stomach churn. The elven wizard's attention was snapped from the sight of Edward climbing to his feet and retrieving his shield as Tervosh once again grabbed his shoulder and shouted.

" There he is! At the crest of the hill! "

It was as the archmage had said. Armor gleaming as the sun broke through the banks of clouds overhead Khan Hratha strode forward, sword and shield in hand and a sneer of arrogant disdain on his face. He was surrounded by centaur in metal armor and most notably several female centaur, their faces hidden behind veils, both equine and human portions of their bodies daubed with crude symbols painted with violet-hued clay.

" I must gather the commanders to execute our plan, remain here! " Tervosh ordered, dashing past him towards the bulk of the fighting. Thunder suddenly ripped through the air, and the distinctive smell of the winds preceding a rainstorm washing over the area. Yet while grey clouds still hung overhead they were not the source of his noise. The arms of the female centaur wove in a circular pattern much like Calga and Mune's had, violently churning clouds appearing but twenty feet above the battle, flashing and rumbling with potential power. Crys could only watch as the first bolts of lightning fell from the magically conjured storm clouds striking Horde warriors with unerring precision, felling all but the strongest of them in a single strike. The line began to waver under this new indefensible assault, each orc willing to die an honorable death in battle but against a foe they could strike back against, not one that hovered untouchable overhead, striking them down at will. If the courage of the Horde warriors faltered, the centaur could rally, driving them back with their superior size and numbers, channeling them into many smaller canyons where they would be picked apart piece-meal. They had only gotten as far as they had into Spearhold with the element of surprise on their side and sheer tenacity, but now horns sounded from every corner of the war camp, horsemen girding themselves for battle, to cut off all chances for escape. They would have to act soon or all would be lost.

" We have come, mage! Take us behind their lines at once! "

Crys's attention snapped instantly to the source of the order, Krosh Axehand leading Mune, Calga, the troll Blackhex, Edward and Tervosh behind him at a run. The breath of each was labored from their run and the fighting, bodies and garments painted in a grisly mix of dark blood and pale mud but each held the look of grim determination in their eyes. They would kill the khan or die trying. Crys held his arms out to keep them from crowding as he brought the required spell to mind. He had been to the main area before, under the shadow of the stone monoliths guarding the way into Maraudon, the statues that were even now visible over the ranks of centaur arrayed against them, and if he had been there before, he could teleport them there. The matrix of glowing blue lines formed under them all, burning with arcane intensity as Crys began the chant and swept his right arm slowly before him, picturing in his mind the crude tents, spear racks and tanning frames. The ground beneath him began to shift, the elf fighting the sensation of standing on a rug that someone was trying to pull out from under him and poured his concentration into the complex mental tapestry that was the spell.

Blinding blue-white light filled his eyes, forcing him to squint, but quickly faded, the sounds and smells of battle interrupted for only a moment before them came flooding back as the haze dissipated. Instantly those around him tensed, drinking in the new surroundings as quickly as they could. The spell had placed exactly where Crys intended, the gigantic stone carvings looming over them with spear drawn, mouths open in a silent cry of challenge. To their left was a line of centaur, their backs to them, the khan and his spell-casting retinue visible amid the teeming ranks of horsemen warriors. The thrumming sound and flash of light that accompanied the teleport spell had scarcely gone unnoticed, however, and soon a handful of centaur wheeled about and charged the small group with spears lowered.

Mune was the first to act, roaring a challenge as he dashed forward, batting aside the spear of the lead centaur and slamming both head and horns into the part where horse fused with man. Both staggered from the impact, their flesh rippling as the shockwave passed along. The thick-necked tauren recovered first, whipping his head back and up, his gory horns trailing thick drops of blood with the action. A quick slash from the halberd across the neck and the centaur collapsed backwards. Krosh's already bloodied axes sought flesh again, weaving counter to each other to scissor and cleave through his lightly-armored opponent. A flash of fire and a crushing hammer felled another centaur, Tervosh and Edward working together so seamlessly that they seemed of the same mind.

Twisting his torso to the side and letting his magical shield take most of the thrust Crys's blade scored its first hit of the battle, stabbing deeply into a centaur's human abdomen. The centaur flailed, rearing up and kicking his forelimbs wildly in an effort to fend off further blows, spear raised for a downward, dagger-like thrust. The warmage's blade wove and cut, landing only minor wounds along the horseman's legs. An awkward spear attack glanced off the shimmering blue field yet again, allowing the elf to finally land a telling blow, left hand cupped to brace the pommel of the sword as Crys lunged forward with all his might, sinking a full half of the blade into the horse portion's sternum. Blade almost jerked from his hands by his large opponent's sudden thrashing it slid clear with a spurt of blood, the mortally wounded horseman falling directly backwards to join his slain fellows on the muddy ground. The remaining two guards fell soon afterwards under the small group's advance, the way to the well-defended khan all but clear, however, as even more centaur defenders moved to intercept.

The melee that followed was close, brutal and chaotic, Crys constantly having to maneuver to avoid being stepped on, knocked down or crushed between the jostling horse portions. His shield finally failed him as a spear thrust, weakened by the protective spell, caught him along his ribs on the left side, the stone head scraping against bone as it withdrew. Staggering back in shock and pain, the elven wizard felt his resolve waver. He could not die here, not after all he had suffered through, fought for. He was so close. Angling his torso to expose the right side of him to his opponent Crys counter-attacked savagely, blade hacking and cutting with little finesse. Sharpened steel bit fingers and bone, sending the spear to the ground as the centaur howled at its maimed hand, swiveling to run as Crys sent a spray of magical darts through his neck and head at point-blank range, killing the horseman instantly. Grunting loudly Crys'annadath pressed his left hand against the wound, feeling his life blood flowing over his fingers. Fierce as they were in the protection of their leader the centaur they could not hold back the elite group, Khan Hratha and his cadre of female stormseers now exposed.

With a snarl Hratha wheeled about, loathe to turn his attention away from the orcs pressing his front lines but unable to ignore the significant threat that had appeared from the rear flank. He showed his distain by pawing at the ground with a forward hoof, tossing his tail and head arrogantly.

" You cannot defeat the Maraudine here, in the shadow of our sacred mountain, " the khan bellowed, gesturing to the massive stone doors to his left with the elaborate shield held on that arm, " your heads will adorn pikes outside my tent and your souls bound forever to the stones of this place! "

" We do not need to defeat all the centaur here, only you. When you meet your ancestors in the beyond tell them this was the price you paid for crossing blades with the Horde, " Krosh returned with a flourish of his axes.

As if by some silent queue the female centaur began to cast, blue electricity arcing along their arms and a sudden wind stirring the hair and clothes of those present. A roar of defiance from the orcish warlord heralded their counter, Mune, Calga, Blackhex and Tervosh advancing to the fore and hurling enchantments of their own. A streak of greenish energy shot from Mune's massive fist, closing the distance between the two groups in the blink of an eye before slamming into the face of one of the stormseers. She staggered backwards under the assault, shrieking in pain as the blow crushed her nose with a gush of blood, her spell forgotten. A pair of spectral wolves, their translucent forms the shimmering blue of clear summer sky erupted from the ground at Calga's feet and charged forward with predatory focus, long fangs that burned like fire finding purchase on the forelegs of another caster, flesh blistering and tearing under their combined assault. The witch doctor's was perhaps the most terrifying to behold. Dark, whispering shapes flowing up around his warped staff, the empty eye sockets of the human skull at the top glowing an unearthly red as the shadowy tendril formed vaguely humanoid figures from the waist up, their arms and hands skeletal, fingers seven digits in length. These shades fell upon a stormseer as she tried in vain to ward them off, their over-long fingers wrapping around her neck and choking her, gaping mouths finding purchase on exposed flesh and sinking in spectral needle teeth, her life force sucked out in streamers of red mist. Tervosh's counter was less flashy but no less effective, interrupting the spell by dissipating the gathered energy in a flash of harmless blue light.

Krosh and Edward burst forward, charging side-by-side, their wordless battle cries merging, axe and hammer raised. Hratha drew his shield down before him, protecting his human abdomen and twirled the glittering sword he wielding in his right hand, a sneer of defiance on his face. The shield blocked the warlord's axe strike despite a last-second change of direction in its path, sparks flying from the force of the blow. The sword parried the descending warhammer, catching the haft just under the blunt head and holding it there. No sooner had the blows struck than previously unseen lightning leapt up from along the centaur khan's body, snaking along his limbs and lashing out at his opponents. Krosh and Edward cried out as the blue energy ripped through them both before disappearing into the ground, orc and paladin staggering back, breathing heavily as wisps of smoke curled out from underneath their armor.

" To fight me is to battle a storm, to catch me is to snare sand between your fingers, to kill me, well, many have tried and here I still stand! " Hratha boasted, throwing his arms out wide as he reared up and charged forward suddenly. Krosh threw himself to the side rather than deflect the khan's sword swing, knowing that to come into contact with it would likely unleash another barrage of lethal lightning. Edward was not so fortunate, raising his shield as he tried to side-step the charge, the crackling energy leaping across the gap between their two shields and striking him a second time, this time sending him to his knees, his face twisted in agony. To even pass close to the khan was to invite death.

The rest of them tensed as the centaur continued forward, intent on running them down. They split into two groups, scrambling to get clear, Tervosh, Blackhex and Crys to the right, Mune dragging Calga behind him to the left. Hratha stopped and turned about at their formerly abandoned position, back hooves lashing out and catching the witch doctor in the chest and launching him backwards to land awkwardly on a centaur workbench, toppling it over and sending troll and numerous unfinished arrow shafts tumbling to the ground with a clatter. The khan's blade wove a deadly pattern, harassing the two shamans, keeping them focused on avoiding its strike than summoning up a spell with which to counter attack.

Tervosh was not idle during this time, brilliant red-orange energy swirling around his cupped hands as he formed a ball of fire and sent it rocketing towards the oblivious khan. The flaming sphere burst and flowed over a spherical surface a mere foot from the centaur's actual body, leaving the centaur unharmed. Again, the jagged arcs of electricity coursed along Hratha's form, this time making the leap from his back and descending like a stinging scorpid's tail onto the archmage, toppling him as if he had been physically struck. Crys knelt beside the fallen wizard, whose body twitched as the last of the energy passed through him and into the ground.

" He's more powerful than we had anticipated. The spirits of this place guard him too well and we may not be able to kill him before our forces are over-run. We were arrogant to believe that these savages would not have access to such powerful enchantments, " Tervosh coughed, fingers clutching the robes over his chest as he looked up at the elf with eyes narrowed in pain.

" Everything that touches him, be it spell or sword, that energy is turned into power for his protective spell and lashes back at the one who dealt it. If we had more time, we could study and correct for it, but… " he continued, slowing moving up to a seated position with Crys's assisting hand. " Get me up, I'll have to sound the retreat before too many lives are lost, " the archmage pressed, grunting with effort as he climbed to his feet, the blow he had been dealt clearly ailing him greatly.

His injured side burning like a red-hot poker had been set there the quel'dorei warmage hoisted Tervosh to his feet, casting his eyes over the dire scene the rest of the battle painted for him. Unable to strike Hratha directly Krosh, and, after having healed himself, Edward, contented themselves on striking down the stormseers, keeping their lethal barrage of lightning bolts from doing further damage to the already grim turn of events. Calga and Mune were dodging this way and that, trying to keep clear of the khan's sword while they tried to puzzle out a way around the centaur's formidable barrier. Both sported defensive wounds, the tauren unable to parry any incoming attacks with his halberd or be laid low like Edward and Krosh had moments before while the orcish shaman bore no weapons at all except her magic. Blackhex groaned and shook his head amongst the ruins of the wooden table he had landed on, his natural troll regeneration already mending his ribs fractured from the titanic kick but it would take some time before he was on his feet again.

Shame and anger flushed the elf's cheeks crimson. Here he was, with hundreds of years of magical training behind him, and this untrained brute bore a shield that would not only shrug off his most powerful spells but would slay him utterly were he to even try. They had all come so far and given so much for this chance and now they would be forced to flee in defeat back to Ghost Walker, if the centaur didn't run them all down on the plains before then.

It was odd then, that the khan's sword driving deep into Mune's hip with a downward thrust would spark a desperate idea in Crys's mind. The tauren stumbled and bellowed in pain, falling to his side as the centaur towered over him, a wide, wild grin on his brutish face, clearly intending to savor the kill for a moment longer. Crys'annadath looked from Edward to the fallen troll, then glanced sideways to Tervosh, his eyes sweeping back and forth quickly as the mind behind them raced just as fast. The warmage looked at the sword in his hand then to Hratha, the ramifications of what he was about to do drying out his throat and making his belly flop like a landed fish.

" Hold the retreat, Tervosh, let me try one last thing! " Crys yelled to him, hobbling forward as quickly as he could over the mucky ground and with the pain of his injury flaring up with each step. The long sword left his hand then, dropped into the bloody mud carelessly, eliciting a concerned cry from the archmage behind him.

" What are you doing Skychaser?! Get away from there! "

Crys pressed forward as if not hearing, his eyes focused on the centaur khan before him, calculating distance and bringing to mind the best spell for the task at hand. He would only get one shot at this. In his weakened state and weaponless he would be easy to dispatch by the armed and armored centaur leader.

Desperate to try and aid the tauren Cagla had summoned a small totem from the ground, carved in the likeness of a hyena's head, mouth overly large and yawning wide. Within seconds a shrill, ear-piercing shriek erupted from within the artifact, making all within the area wince, but seeming to especially annoy Hratha, who roared in anger and ignored the prone tauren for a life-saving moment.

" Your paltry tricks only enrage me, puny orc! You shall fall next to my blade, be sure of that. "

Even from the distance between the khan and the halberd on the ground small fingers of electricity leapt out and coursed along its length, even though Mune did not hold it, reinforcing what Crys had originally suspected about the nature of the field. The elf walked unnoticed to the very side of the khan, reluctantly pulling away his blood-drenched left hand from his wound and trying to push out the distractions around him as he wove his spell. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the khan's blade rose up to finish off the wounded tauren and Crys's hands darted forward as his spell reached completion, causing only the faintest ripple in the centaur's shield as they passed through.

A blaze suddenly erupted within the shield, instantly defining its circumference as the violent flames filled it to capacity. Hratha and Crys cried out as one as the magical fire stuck them both at the same instant, the elf reflexively jerking his burnt hands back but for the centaur there was no escape. The thrashing silhouette of the horse man could be seen dimly amongst the firestorm before the vanishing potency of the spell caused the flames to dissipate to nothing, every inch of his body seared and blackened. The khan could only emit a choking groan and waver unsteadily before the lightning struck in retaliation for the energy released within it, racing across the convulsing body of the horse man, his wildly twitching muscles likely the only thing keeping him upright.

When at last the discharge had ended the khan, smoke trickling out from his ears and mouth and the smell of burnt hair and flesh gagging all those nearby, collapsed forward, front legs buckling first before the rest of his equine body followed, landing at Crys's feet, stone dead. The elf did not remain standing for much longer after that, injured hands cradled against his chest he fell backwards, eyes scrunched closed and mouth agape as waves of nausea and pain flowed through him.

He was dimly aware of voices calling his name above the distant clash of arms but the elven wizard was in no position or mind to respond. The pain shooting up his arms from his hands was unbearable, like dunking them in boiling water but with no way to pull them out. His legs thrashed weakly as he tried to cope with the agony, rolling back and forth while his breaths came in strangled sobs. Footfalls clomped up to him and almost instantly the pain began to ease, the blistered and cracked skin of his hands beginning to tingle, the fire of pain from his side flickering out. Daring to open his eyes he blinked past the tears of pain that had sprung up there to see both Calga and Mune standing over him, brilliant viridian energy pouring from their hands and onto him, ribbons of it trailing images of oak leaves drawn in the same green light swirling over his wounds. Crys drew in a deep, shuddering breath of relief before daring to glance at his hands. Like the imperfections in wet clay smoothed out by the potter's touch the fire-warped flesh mended itself, returning them to very nearly their original condition. By the time the energy was spent his hands were seized with only a dull ache, the skin still raw and scarred in places, but worlds better than they had been but heartbeats prior.

" Bold or foolhardy, your plan worked, mage, " Mune rumbled with a touch of respect in his voice, his own wound healing as they spoke.

Tervosh was next on the scene, his face initially stricken but swiftly relaxed upon seeing Crys's condition.

" I thought you mad when you charged forward with no weapon, Skychaser. What possessed you to try something so outlandish? " he asked with a brief chuckle and a incredulous shake of his head. Crys'annadath climbed to his feet, assisted by one of the tauren's massive hands, before he responded, belatedly realizing he was covered in the muck they all stood on.

" Hratha was no magic-user, so the enchantment around him granted by the spirits was a very basic one for them, simple and direct in its purpose and function. It possessed the natural attraction of lightning to flow through metal, as evidenced by the metal weapons and armor worn by Strongshield and Axehand. Direct contact wasn't even necessary. However, the electricity did not activate when Hratha kicked Blackhex or stabbed you, shaman Greysky, as it was not under his direct control and you bore little metal. It was purely reflexive. Having determined its circumference when your fireball had hit it I figured that I could cast a spell through it if I was close enough. I cast aside my sword before doing so because the metal in it would attract the energy to me. I did not, however, anticipate the electrical backlash afterwards. A stroke of luck in our favor it seems, " the warmage explained.

" Well thought and bravely executed, Magus Skychaser. The battle tips in our favor now, as a dozen new would-be khans struggle to gain dominance, " the archmage congratulated Crys with an approving nod. " However, I should like to see their anger focused on one another, not upon our forces here. Ladies and gentlemen, it is time we rejoined the main force and sounded the

retreat, " he went on to say, straightening out his muddied robes as best he could. " Another teleport spell would be the most expedient method, one I will furnish this time. "

Krosh was in the distance bellowing mocking words in orcish as he chased off the demoralized centaur while Edward, on his way back to the group stopped parallel with the fallen khan's human torso. A rueful smile and a shake of his head preceded his words to them all, gesturing with the bloodied head of his warhammer to the burnt body at his feet.

" I thought I recognized the armor and blade. During the chaos of the battle I didn't have time to think about where I had seen it before but now I know for sure. They belonged to a knight named Sir Alexander Connell, a veteran of both wars who came with the refugees fleeing from Lordaeron. He was a bigot towards orcs and generally disliked anything that wasn't human, but he was also a stalwart, honorable man whom inspired many young men to take up the call to arms, myself included. When Governess Proudmoore let the Horde kill her father the admiral, well, that was too much for him. He left that very night with a cadre of his closest comrades, carrying with him what equipment and possessions he could manage and a burning hatred for Thrall and his kind. Jaina had no choice but to mark him a traitor and a deserter lest his actions reflect poorly upon Theramore's desire for peace with the Horde. "

Edward paused a moment then to compose himself before he continued, his voice growing thick with emotion.

" Tales of his attacks on the Horde had grown fewer and fewer over the course of the past two years until Kalimdor just seemed to swallow him up, never to be seen or heard from again. Up until now, that is, with the armor and shield granted to him by King Terenas as a reward for his long service and the sword blessed by Archbishop Faol laying upon the carcass of his savage and craven beast-man, his own body left to bloat in the sun and be feasted upon by vermin and vultures, " the paladin finished, his words filled with venom at the end. Crys had never seen the normally pleasant man angry before, angry enough to forget that there were those around him that were not human as well and might take offense to the implication that anything strictly not human was aberrant. It was a passing thing though, Edward shutting his eyes and whispering a prayer, the lines fading from his furrowed brow as he made peace with the knight's death.

Once he had finished the paladin dropped the haft of his warhammer through a loop on his belt and knelt down, retrieving the blade still stained with Mune's blood, its rigid sheath, and after some effort, slipping a ring off of one of Hratha's burnt fingers.

" Time does not permit me to strip the armor off and lay it in a proper grave as is befitting of a true hero of Lordaeron, but the most cherished of his possessions may yet aid those who continue to fight for what they believe in, " he stated, turning and walking with reverence towards Crys, could only stand there bewildered.

" Take these, Magus Skychaser. You have most likely killed his slayer and brought us victory this day, and where you are going, a holy blade and a reliable means of transport will be great boons. "

The elven warmage looked down upon the muddied and blood-stained relics offered to him, feeling unworthy of taking them up but at the same time unable to refuse them.

" The one who was instrumental in the planning and slaying of our foe should get first pick of the spoils. No member of the Horde will refute this, " the tauren shaman urged quietly.

As Crys'annadath reached forward to pluck the items from Strongshield's grap. First was the sword, gleaming and exquisite even under its coating of muck and blood. Shaped like the round cross of the church of the Light the golden wire-wrapped handle met with a rounded hilt that curved upwards to form the outline of a half-circle. The cross guard itself was fashioned from gleaming steel set with evenly spaced golden diamond engraving, the centers of which held actually diamonds, winking slightly even in the dim light. Three inches of steel further up and a mirror of the upwards turned hilt was found, completing the "open circle" design. Beyond the dual hilts was the blade, three fingers wide and roughly three feet long, tapering at the end into a leaf-shaped tip. An embossed line of gold followed the narrow fuller in the middle of the blade from the top of the down-turned cross guard before ending just before where the blade's edges began to curve inwards towards the point. While larger than the more slender elven blades Crys had trained with, some four feet long from pommel to tip its weight was comparable, feeling light and reactive in his grip, though if this was due to the materials or some enchantment he wasn't sure.

" Crafted from one of the largest chunks of lightforge iron ever recorded by master dwarven and human swordsmiths its tale is almost as long and storied as the men who had wielded it. Suffice to say, master mage, it deserves the utmost care and respect. Dawnstar is yours now. Wield it always in the name of righteousness and justice, never for selfish or vengeful reasons like its previous owner did in the last years of his life, " Edward instructed, running his eyes over the sword like he were gazing upon the grave of a fallen hero.

Sheathing the blade with a silent promise to clean it as soon as he was able Crys spent a moment examining the scabbard. The whole of it was carved from a single piece of ivory, columns of knights charging into battle carved into its surface, their banners, the trim of their armor and the emblem of the church upon their shields highlighted with gold. Tossing aside the scabbard for his discarded sword he slid his new weapon upon his belt where it hung with a reassuring weight.

The ring was next, fashioned from two pieces of dull grey iron. Two galloping horses chased one another around his finger (Crys wincing slightly as he slipped it over his still injured hands), the nose of one joining the tail of the other seamlessly. Tiny chips of hematite formed a single eye on each of the metal horses, while a combination of polishing and minute lines along the surface gave the impression of musculature and a flowing mane and tail.

" While he rode a war horse into actual battle this ring was fashioned for him by a wizard friend after losing his favorite steed when the stables caught fire early in his career. I was told it contained the soul of that horse, though in truth it is more likely it is a magical creation bearing the likeness of his lost mount. I confess I know little else about it, except that it requires no rest, no food and knows no fear. It will serve with absolute loyalty and impeccable training. Ashlocke, I had heard him call it when he had taken me and a number of other hopeful young knights for a ride through Silverpine. Its hooves barely seemed to touch the ground and when Alexander challenged us to try and beat him back to the city we could not match its speed, drifting along the road like something not of this earth, " the paladin reminisced fondly, his eyes unfocused as he thought back to those halcyon days when Lordaeron still stood strong and proud. Crys looked down to the ring again, focusing his senses on it and finding a tiny response on some intuitive level of something ready to spring forth when he wished it.

" We must be away, " Tervosh interjected suddenly, his tone mild but the urgency etched on his face. Edward nodded, once again drawing out his hammer while Krosh finally rejoined them, everything between the tips of his axes to his elbows drenched in fresh blood. The black-robed archmage began casting, the familiar blue glow pooling out beneath them all and mere moments later they vanished.

The centaur lines were in disarray, contradictory orders shouted back and forth while the news of the khan's death rippled through the ranks. Old clan rivalries flared up, horsemen squaring off against one another even while orcs continued to press them and trolls and dwarves peppered them with shots and spears. It was exactly as the commanders had hoped, anarchy reigning in the absence of a powerful leader. The orders to withdraw were given and the mixed forces of Alliance and Horde began to push their way past pockets of resistance back to the plains outside of Spearhold. When Crys observed Edward walking slowly amongst the footmen who had fallen he thought the paladin was merely delivering last rites, but when he paused and a golden light began to radiate from the head of his warhammer he knew something else was going on. The glow continued to increase in power, arcs and flares of holy power drifting off the paladin's golden form as his words became a powerful, booming chant. A sudden horizon of the energy erupted outwards, covering the area with its incandescent glory, streamers of it trickling down like smoke flowing in reverse into the mouths of the fallen Alliance soldiers. Edward toppled forward then, nearly falling flat on his face but managing instead to go down on one knee, bracing himself with his hammer against the ground. The area became a silent tableau for a long moment afterwards, nothing moving, even the distant sounds of battle seemed muted. Then, incredibly, the dead began to stir, drawing air once again into their lungs, coughing and groaning but very much alive.

" Help them to their feet! " Edward ordered with a turn of his head, " we leave no Alliance soldier here this day. "

Crys picked his way through those rushing to obey until he stood beside the paladin. Edward staggered to his feet, almost knocking the assisting warmage over in doing so, exhausted and ashen-faced but seemingly at peace.

" What happened to requiring the governing council's approval for resurrections? " the elf asked while the paladin recovered his wits. Edward's reply came between lips turned in a sly smile.

" It still stands. You may be a fine mage, but you are no healer. These men were clearly not dead, only gravely injured. Our surprise tactic was so successful we didn't suffer a single casualty. A remarkable thing, not unheard of though. "

Crys was taken aback by the paladin's subterfuge but upon meeting his eyes he could find no sane reason to argue the point, nor, given Edward's sterling career, would the council.

It had all happened as he said.

The withdrawal was orderly and generally painless. A few knots of resistance attempted to bar their way but were no match for the fierce push of the combined forces and it wasn't long before Crys trod upon their own tracks again, free of the confining canyons and wooden barricades of Spearhold. The troops mustered a half mile away, a careful watch put up on their western flank for incoming centaur while the wounded were bandaged, and for those with more severe injuries, magically healed. There were no cheers of victory, no songs sung as they slogged through the grey muck, just the heavy breathing of exertion, each and every warrior's armor caked with dried mud and blood. They would have to make it to the shallow cliff before getting a proper rest, the first defensible location between them and Ghost Walker Post.

With no other options Crys sat in the mud while the warband took a breather, wrists resting upon his knees, the skin on his hands still feeling sore and tight. He couldn't wait to get back to his quarters at the top of Greymere Tower, to soak in a bath and put on fresh clothes, to prepare for his voyage the very next morning. Whereas before his mind could only focus on the myriad problems and challenges facing him with the centaur, now he was planning out what provisions and equipment he would take, trying to remember the lay-out of Stormwind, wondering exactly how much of former Lordaeron the Scourge still controlled over the last two years. The elven wizard knew there was much cause for concern on such a long and dangerous journey, but he was filled also with a nervous energy, a desire to begin so that he could begin figuring out ways to surmount the challenges such a journey would throw in his path.

Rested, with Crys handing around some loaves of rye to the soldiers to supplement the water they drank from skins, they started to pack up to march again, each of them just as eager to be done with this desolate and joyless land, for something warm to eat and to scrub the stink of battle from their bodies. Crys was surprised then, when a clearing of a throat revealed both Tervosh and Edward standing behind him.

" We will skirt the graveyard this time, our soldiers are weary and likely to have a few accidents if we attempting passing through it again. Since you are on more of a strict time-table than the rest of us Sir Strongshield and I have reached a consensus that your services here are no longer required. You may return to Theramore under your own power, having completed your duties admirably, " the archmage explained with a trace of a smile on his lips.

Crys's surprise quickly evolved into joy. He was free. He could put his plans into action now, rather than worrying if he would have enough time for them all before the ships departed.

Tervosh then retrieved two objects from his robe, a wooden scroll case with a small lock upon it and a folded letter on white vellum with a marbled purple seal that was becoming familiar to the elven wizard. The letter was expected, but the scroll case piqued Crys's interest. Tervosh did not leave him guessing for long.

" Your letter of release, signed by Governess Proudmoore herself, to be presented to the captain of the ship you will be given berth upon, the battleship _Bastion_, " he informed, holding up the pale letter first, " this other message is for your eyes only, to be opened only when Theramore is but a speck on the horizon. The lock on the case will pop open on its own accord once you have passed a certain distance, in case you are wondering. Very hush-hush stuff. "

The quel'dorei frowned, taking both but his eyes only upon the scroll case.

" Any idea what it contains? " Crys asked, shaking it lightly.

" None, " Tervosh replied, cocking his head with a slight shrug of his shoulders, " only two people will know its exact contents; you and the one who wrote it. I am merely a way of relaying it to you. "

Crys pursed his lips in frustration, eyeing the case uneasily before tucking it under his belt. He would have to deal with its contents and their effects on his plans when he had a chance to review them.

" Good luck and Light be with you, " Edward wished, stepping past black-robed mage and extending his hand. Crys returned the gesture, instantly regretting it as the paladin firmly squeezed his still aching hands.

" Sorry, " Strongshield muttered, belatedly realizing what he had done.

" Good luck indeed. Your quest, as I understand it, will require much more skill and courage than anything we have done here today. May you find what you seek on that lost continent, " Tervosh added, forgoing the handshake for a polite bow instead.

" And to you both, this continent has enough foes and surprises to last even an elf's lifetime, " the warmage returned.

Crys summoned forth the energy to shape into his spell, but paused. Where should he go first? After a moment's deliberation the pull of the moonwell at Nijel's Point proved too strong, the elf simply unable to set aside the thoughts of those cool energies washing over him, bolstering him for the coming day. This would be his last chance for such a long time, besides, he had a convenient excuse: he could inform those at the night elf camp of their victory. Blue light flared up, illuminating the faces of Edward and Tervosh, of those bloodied and bandaged soldiers who turned to determine its source, tinting them with an unearthly light before the sight was wiped clean by a burst of cerulean energy.


End file.
